


Prisoner of War

by Actually_Felicity_Smoak



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Feels, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, deuteragonist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-13 16:55:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 37
Words: 29,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5709982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Actually_Felicity_Smoak/pseuds/Actually_Felicity_Smoak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Digg has been Oliver's constant companion for nearly the whole quest. He's so strong and steady, it's easy to forget how remarkable he is. But how much does Starling City owe to Digg's patient loyalty? </p><p>A John Diggle appreciation fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Veteran

**Author's Note:**

> My own PTSD is based on childhood emotional abuse, not combat, so I apologize for any aspects of military PTSD I get wrong. 
> 
> Several of my titles are taken from songs that have helped me. I'll try to keep the list up to date as I write.  
> \- Prisoner of War, by David Wilcox (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=59dlC6hVYDM)  
> \- Smile When You're Ready, by Fred Small (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xgOZf_Azfx0&ab_channel=#FredSmall)

_Another day, another security job for a spoiled onepercenter_. John Diggle shook himself. As tempting and satisfying as it was to lump all of Starling City's elite into a drawer marked "Scumbag, Wealthy", it wasn't fair, and it wasn't true. Although he had no problem calling a narcissist a narcissist, John had figured out a while ago that judging his clients by their economic class was as unjust as them judging him by his origins. And on top of that, a solider who stops paying attention to details, who starts prejudging situations based on what has "always been", is a soldier who doesn't come home. 

_Anyway, this one should at least be interesting._ Oliver Queen -- billionaire playboy, recently returned from the dead. _Be interesting to see what kinds of stories he has, marooned for 5 years._

John arrived at the Queen mansion a precise quarter-hour early. He was ushered into the parlor and introduced to Moira Queen, who thanked him for showing up to the job she was paying him for, and explained that Oliver was expected down shortly. John thanked her politely, and then took up his invisible-bodyguard stance near the front door. When Moira moved outside, John followed. Finally a young, well-dressed man came out the door and ran down the two steps to the driveway. 

"Oliver! I want to introduce you to someone. John Diggle. He will be accompanying you from now on." 

John waited, statue-like, while the Queens quarreled over his employment. He'd found that if he didn't move, people assumed that he couldn't hear, and he could eavesdrop to his heart's content. Politeness was all well and good, but accurate intel was better, and it helped to know everything he could about his protectee. 

"This is something _I_ need." John couldn't see Moira's face, but he assumed she was giving Oliver a pleading look. _That or the stern-parent look._ It would have been an interesting thing to bet on, if there'd been anyone to bet with. At any rate, it appeared to have been the trump card: Oliver leaned around his mother to look at John; John looked back impassively until Oliver gave a short nod. Moira stretched up to kiss him on the cheek, then she and Walter went inside as Oliver moved over to stand in front of John. 

"Oliver Queen." Oliver held out his hand. 

"John Diggle." John accepted the proffered handshake, and then froze. 

_Shit,_ was his first coherent thought. As he always did, John took the few seconds of a handshake to analyze the person in front of him. And the analysis in this case led to one startling conclusion: _Veteran_. 

Veteran. Oliver Queen hadn't fought in any wars -- that story would have made the tabloids -- but the label was inescapable nonetheless. John could feel it in the strength of the grip, read it in the polite but vacant smile. See it in the gaze that didn't _quite_ ever focus on just one thing. Feel it in Oliver's stance, that looked casual but was perfectly balanced for fight or flight, whichever might prove necessary. Sense it in the impression, whose source he couldn't quite pin down but that he trusted implicitly, that Oliver was _always_ alert, always a second away from fight or flight. And that he tended to fight, if it came down to it. 

_Shit. This kid's PTSD._ And there was a good chance that John Diggle was the only person on the planet who knew it. 

\--

Oliver was silent for the 20-mile drive to town, which gave John time to think. He'd dealt with his share -- and more than his share -- of young soldiers, recently back from the combat zone, faking normality, pretending they weren't broken inside. Hell, most of them _believed_ they weren't broken. They'd forgotten it was possible to relax. They didn't remember that, before they'd left, they'd smiled and laughed and enjoyed a beer at the end of a work day. They didn't know that "normality" included a work day that ended, when you could _stop_ thinking about your mission, and just do whatever you wanted to do. 

They didn't know that, for most people, "What do you want to do?" was a question that could be answered without reference to duty rosters, watch schedules, sleep schedules, and upcoming inspections. They'd forgotten how to want anything. 

John glanced in the rearview mirror at his passenger. Oliver was slouched in the backseat, probably trying to give the impression of a bored youth, but John watched his eyes cycle through a watchful scan: left side, forward, right side, down, forward, up ... John looked back to the road before Oliver looked to the rearview mirror to see behind himself and complete the loop. 

John had been lucky. When he'd returned from Afghanistan, he'd had help and support. He and Lyla couldn't seem to make a peacetime marriage work out, but she'd understood what he was going through, and they helped each other out as best they could. His mother had been there, rock-steady, ready to see him through crying jags or violent outbursts with the same comforting warmth. Andy had helped him find a job where his military wariness was an asset, not a liability. It had taken time, but he'd found his new center. 

Other vets weren't so lucky. John tried to be there, to help them through the transition. The military was very good at turning civilians into soldiers; not so good at helping them reverse the transformation afterwards. And that was _with_ psychologists finally starting to acknowledge that PTSD was a real phenomenon, at least for returning military personnel. 

For returning billionaire playboys? John was willing to bet that no one had bothered to look for the signs. Which meant that -- at that moment -- only John Diggle was aware of how close Oliver Queen was to breaking down entirely. Any meltdown that occurred would be dangerous -- probably injurious to any innocent bystanders; certainly injurious to the broken boy who wouldn't understand his own reaction. 

_This isn't what I'm getting paid for._ But he could hear Lyla's voice, as clearly as if she were sitting in the passenger seat: _No, Johnny, it's what you were born for._

"So ... what do I call you?" Oliver broke his long silence as they reached downtown. 

John hesitated. He had so many names, and so many different identities -- John to his family, Johnny to his mother, and later to Lyla. Sergeant Diggle in the army; Mr. Diggle to his clients. Diggle, or Digg, to his friends. 

"Diggle's good." He paused, but what was there, really, to think about? He wasn't going to let the kid drown in his own suppressed emotions. "Digg if you want." 

"You're ex-military?" 

"Yes, sir!" _Former military_ , his mind insisted on correcting. But John had been self-employed for nearly half a decade, and had learned that little good came of trying to educate civilians in the nuances of military culture. Instead he gave his elevator speech for those who were curious about his background. It also gave him the opportunity to clarify exactly what "bodyguard" meant, for those clients unaccustomed to being watched. "105th Airborne out of Kandahar, retired. Been in the private sector a little more than 4 years now. I don't want there to be any confusion, Mr. Queen. My ability to keep you from harm will outweigh your comfort." He paused, but Oliver said nothing. 

"Do we have an agreement?" Not that he had much choice -- John would tackle him to the ground with or without his permission, if it came to that -- but it was better to have buy-in if you could. 

Still, Oliver said nothing. "Sir?" John heard a car door open, shut, and the horn of a passing car. 

"Sir!" He stopped the car, and peered in the backseat, but he already knew what had happened. Oliver had unbuckled himself, then jumped out of a moving car at 25 miles per hour, when he saw a convenient opportunity. Diggle eyed the alleyway on the passenger side of the car -- dollars to doughnuts Oliver had darted down there, taken his first turn, and disappeared. There was no way to track him now. 

_Well that's a new one,_ he thought. 


	2. Observe, Orient, Decide

John sat at the end of the Queen's driveway, thinking.

He'd pulled over and searched -- always give your opponent the opportunity to be stupid -- but Oliver had indeed vanished. So John had gone to stakeout mode, and returned to the place he was most confident Oliver would eventually show up. And in the meantime, he had time to think through the implications of Oliver's disappearance.

He'd never had a veteran rabbit on him before. It wasn't a reaction he was expecting. But thinking it over, it made sense. Most of the people he'd talked to were skittish. They'd had to be -- their survival depended on constant vigilance. But they'd also been working as part of a team, and their survival depended just as much on being able to rely on others. Even if John hadn't personally worked with a given vet, they were programmed to trust and work with people wearing his uniform, who spoke the way he did. So however nervous they might be, they wouldn't consider him a threat to be escaped.

Oliver, on the other hand, had spent 5 years on an island. John had spent some time browsing through tabloids on his phone, but no news outlet had anything he would rate as reliable; apparently no one had persuaded Oliver to sell his story. So he had no idea what Oliver had gone through in those 5 years. John set the phone down, and leaned back to review what he did know.

 _Strong and lean._ That would probably be true of any castaway; living without modern technology was the best workout humanity had ever invented.

 _Agile, and fast._ That might be explained by primitive living, but John thought there was probably more to it than that. Wilderness survival required more physical activity than modern life, but mostly in strength and stamina -- very few situations required you to move quickly. Certainly not to become dexterous enough to bolt from a car travelling 25 mph, roll to one's feet, and be out of sight before an army E9 could spot you. So. Something on that island had required Oliver to become speedy, balanced, and controlled.

 _Alert._ This was the biggest tip-off. Oliver's eyes never stopped moving, and no matter where he looked, he was always _also_ checking out his peripheral vision. He stood with his weight balanced and slightly forward, to minimize his reaction time and maximize his combat options. Half a dozen subliminal clues -- Oliver's scent, the pitch and tone of his voice, dilation of his pupils, the speed of his pulse in his neck -- told John that Oliver was in a state of physiological arousal -- what John's tactical instructors had called "Condition Orange". He felt it necessary to keep up his guard, and be prepared to act on less than a second's notice, at all time. So the island was dangerous. Most likely large predators ... John picked up his phone again. A quick search didn't bring up any large predators common to Chinese islands. Lian Yu might have been home to a specialized species ... or perhaps one of the many species of bat was somehow dangerous. John set the question aside for the time being; the relevant part was that Oliver had lived 5 years on constant look-out, knowing that relaxing his guard could mean death. That kind of constant stress caused neurological damage as well as physical exhaustion, which was one reason the military tried to work in teams and sleep within secured territory, encouraging soldiers to trust that their comrades would protect them. Oliver hadn't had any relaxation -- probably limited sleep -- for a few thousand days.

And now, with this new data, he knew also that Oliver had been isolated -- he wasn't used to trusting someone, relying on them to protect him. John chastised himself for not realizing it sooner -- Oliver had shown none of the instinctive measuring of a new person, to place them on the ally-threat index, that John usually saw with returning soldiers. Oliver treated all data points as threats, and responded accordingly.

 _So where does that leave me?_ John weighed his options.

He could leave. It was clear that this was going to be one of the most irritating jobs of his career, and now was the time to pull out, if he was going to. The problem with that, of course, is that if he didn't help Oliver, no one would. 

He could pass on his intel to Moira, before he left. But he didn't know whether Moira would be able to help Oliver -- or get help for Oliver -- or not. 

So he didn't really have enough information at this point to make a decision. Which meant that he would have to stick around at least a little while longer. 

John nodded, then settled back to wait for Oliver. The easiest way to get more information would be to continue to follow Oliver around. So he'd wait until Oliver got home, then follow him inside. That would also give Moira the impression that everything was going according to plan, which would leave more options open later. 


	3. Parrrrrrtay!

Oliver hesitated as he opened the door and saw John in the backseat. His eyes flicked to the driver up front, and John hid a smile of satisfaction. _I'm not losing you again._

"Buckle your seatbelt, sir. We wouldn't want you to miss your party."

Oliver -- to John's surprise -- smiled. Not the polite-but-vacant smile he'd used when they'd first shaken hands, but what seemed to be a genuine smile. 

John thought it over as they rode downtown. Smiling is almost always a good sign -- assuming of course that it actually was genuine -- but John was unclear on what he could have done to earn it. _Nevermind; take 'em as they come._

Oliver didn't seem to be in a talking mood, so John sat in companionable silence, letting Oliver get used to the idea of having other people around. 

At the party, Oliver was immediately appropriated by Thomas Merlyn, leaving John free to do his job; Oliver was enough the center of attention that John had no concerns about losing track of him. John alternated between scanning the crowd for threats and keeping an eye on Oliver -- if a single bodyguard was enough to trigger him into flight, there was a good chance this sort of crowd could create a full-on panic attack. John prayed to whatever God might be listening that he wouldn't have to take down his own protectee. 

Mostly, he watched for other clues that would help him understand what Oliver was going through. Oliver played the role that Tommy and the others were obviously expecting: someone who intended to pick up drinking, drugs, and casual sex right where he had left off. John was less convinced. For one thing, after the first shot of tequila, Oliver never picked up another drink. For another ...

John's heart rate had spiked as Oliver moved suddenly. He leaned forward, prepared to get through the crowd as quickly as possible, but soon realized what had caused Oliver's sudden focus: Thea Queen, moving through the crowd, clearly already several shots into an evening of underage drinking. 

John had watched while Oliver confronted Thea angrily. His read was that the anger was genuine, but it had also been used as a distraction while Oliver slipped his hand into Thea's purse and extracted a small baggie. After Thea stormed off, Oliver walked calmly over to a trash can, and threw the baggie away. 

_Pickpocketing? Really?_ That seemed to argue strongly against the isolation theory -- John couldn't think of any wilderness survival scenario where training as a pickpocket would help you survive. But if he'd been around people, why hadn't he contacted his family much sooner? And what was the trigger that had caused him to ditch John at the first opportunity? 

The question had to be set aside as Oliver entered the heart of the crowd -- voluntarily, which seemed to argue against the isolation theory as well -- and John had to focus on keeping track of him. The next person to catch Oliver's attention was a young white woman, whose dress and manner would have caused John to picture her at a cocktail party, not a rave. She and Oliver moved to a quieter part of the building, and John perforce followed. With fewer people, and farther from the music, John could stay farther back while still having a good observational position. 

"If I could trade places with her, I would" Oliver said quietly. John moved closer, hoping to pick up more information on Oliver's history. 

"If you need someone to talk to ... about what happened to you ... I'm here." _Excellent._ John thought. _He definitely needs someone to talk to._

Conversation paused as Oliver pulled out his cell phone. "I asked somebody to do something. They didn't do it." John furrowed his brow, thinking through everything he'd observed over his time as Oliver's bodyguard. From everything he could recall, Oliver had spent all his time avoiding help, not asking for it. Of course it could have been during one of the times they were apart, but it was highly out of character. 

John watched as Oliver put the phone back in his jacket, and then made great effort to push Laurel away. That, too, was a pattern John was familiar with. Veterans' anger made others afraid of them; their genuine self-loathing made it easy for them to convince others that they weren't worth the trouble. For once, Oliver Queen was open and honest, sharing exactly what was in his heart, as he told Laurel that he was terrible, that she should stay away, that he would only hurt her again. John's heart hurt to see the self-hatred now evident in Oliver's eyes, and hear in Oliver's tone how much he despised himself.

Then Oliver seemed to remember his facade, and visibly shook himself back into the playboy persona. His eyes closed down; he went back to his vague smile, and his voice rose. "I've got five years of debauchery to catch up on!" 

The forced jocularity rang false on John's ear, but apparently it fooled Laurel; she fired her parting shot, and walked away, too quickly to see Oliver close his eyes in pain. He glanced after her, then stood rigidly for a few moments, so still that John couldn't see him breathe. 

Finally, Oliver's head came up, and he looked around. Orienting himself, apparently -- his eyes paused on no person, including John, but instead sought doorways. He selected a drab door inset off the hallway, and headed towards it. 

John frowned as Oliver disappeared into a employees-only hallway. Oliver would almost certainly want alone time after that, and under the current circumstances, that would include ditching his bodyguard. 

Fortunately, John had worked security in this event center, and knew how it was laid out behind the scenes. Oliver's most likely exit was through the kitchens, and John knew a faster way to get there. 

-

"Something I can help you with, sir?" John asked, pocketing his phone. He allowed no trace of satisfaction to show on his face as Oliver froze and turned around. _Try to ditch me again, will you? Who do you think you're playing with?_

"I just wanted a second to myself."

John could see that was true; to his eye, Oliver was a breath and a heartbeat away from crying. But at a more significant level, it was an enormous lie. What Oliver wanted was to run away from his problems, his emotions. He didn't want to be by himself; he wanted be around anyone _but_ himself. "I would believe you, Mister Queen, if you weren't so full of crap."

Oliver looked down like a child caught raiding the cookie jar, and gave a slight nod as if to acknowledge the point. Then he looked back up to meet John's eyes as if seeing him for the first time. _What kind of idiot did you take me for, kid?_ "The party's this way."

Oliver hesitated, but John had left him no escape. Oliver finally stepped to the door, then stepped back to the side. "It's locked."

John looked at him a long moment; Oliver had made no attempt to turn the handle, and had pushed the door instead of pulling. Did he honestly believe John wouldn't notice? Or was this an infantile tantrum in response to getting caught? A way of trying to put John in his place? _Probably not worth fighting over._ John reached past Oliver to turn the handle. 

The last thing he remembered was pain on his neck and the door tilting wildly.


	4. Recovery

John Diggle awoke with an enormous headache and an even greater rage. 

_I'm gonna kill him!_ was his first coherent thought, and he pushed himself upright to do just that. 

He sank back as several realizations hit at once:  
One, he wasn't fully mission-capable yet. The sudden movement had made his head swim and his vision blur slightly.  
Two, there were no immediate threats in his vicinity.  
Three, that included Oliver Queen.  
Four, killing one's protectee was not a good way to build one's private security practice. 

John pushed himself up to sitting, and leaned back against a commercial freezer, fighting the anger within him that demanded action. 

_You're strong enough for this, Johnny._ His mother had never stopped believing in him, in his goodness, no matter how frightened she had been. Even now, whenever he found himself overwhelmed with fury, it was her voice he heard. 

John took a deep breath, and focused on relaxing his muscles. The exercise served multiple purposes: it gave him a focus, to help him think about his reactions instead of moving on instinct. It counteracted the effect adrenaline was having on his muscles, to help un-trigger him sooner. 

And perhaps most importantly, a relaxed muscle couldn't rip anyone's arm off. 

_It's just a feeling._ John reminded himself, taking another breath, as deep as he could make it. _It doesn't require you to do anything._ Another deep breath. _It's just chemicals in the blood stream._ Another breath. _It doesn't make you good or bad. Just let it happen, and let it pass._

He could feel the power in his arms, in his hands, trying to clench his fists; trying to punch. He flexed his fingers, spread them apart, and pressed them firmly into his thighs. In that pose he could push as hard as he needed to without risking harm to anything -- or anyone -- around him. 

Gradually the clenching in his core lessened. 

After a timeless eternity of breathing and relaxing, John gave a shuddering sob, and opened his eyes. 

_Five, Oliver Queen is an injured, hurting child, and beating the shit out of him is not going to help him feel safe, nor make it easier for him to adjust to life in Starling City._

John grudgingly gave up thoughts of revenge, and pushed himself to his feet. This time his balance was stable, and his vision remained focused. He pulled the door open to head back to the main event space and assess the situation.

\--------

The car ride home could be classified as ... awkward. 


	5. Wrestling with demons, best two out of three

That awkwardness persisted through the next several days, John standing silently, Oliver glancing sideways at him. 

John knew he should say something to break the tension, but he couldn't figure out what. He tried out various conversation starters in his head, but nothing came to him that he could imagine going anywhere good. No matter what he thought of, or how many variations on the conversation he envisioned, he always ended up with his stomach clenched. And his jaw. And his fists. 

And getting angry with Oliver would be worse than the awkward silence. If he had been around people -- and despite it not making any sense, John was increasingly convinced that he had been -- and come back with PTSD, then there was no chance Oliver wouldn't recognize and respond to anger in another person, no matter how good John was at controlling his expression. Especially since John's body still responded to anger by getting ready to fight. The last thing he needed was to make Oliver Queen feel threatened by the very person assigned to keep him safe.

But it was really not in John Diggle to forgive someone for choking him into unconsciousness. John wrestled with it, driving home from work, sitting in his apartment in the early morning darkness. 

Every day, he thought about quitting. And every tomorrow, he drove out to the Queen mansion again, because Oliver needed him. Because despite the awkwardness, Oliver relaxed, just a bit, as soon as John approached him. Because Oliver's constant-vigilance scan of his surroundings no longer covered the direction in which John stood. 

And John had seen enough of the Queen family to know that Oliver would not be getting help from his mother. She might love her children -- John didn't have enough intel to judge -- but she was certainly not the solid pillar of support that John's mother had been, that Oliver needed. She was nervous, distracted, and prone to denial about the possibility of her children being anything less than perfect.

John judged Walter to be a fine man, and he would be an excellent candidate for helping Oliver, except that the awkwardness between Oliver and Walter was even greater than the awkwardness between Oliver and John. Indeed, much of John's good opinion of Walter was based on the tactful ease with which Walter removed himself from a room when Oliver entered. 

Thea, now ... Thea would have been John's choice for Oliver to talk to. Despite the inter-sibling banter, she clearly cared for Oliver deeply, and looked up to him. Oliver, for his part, gave to Thea the only genuine affection John had seen him offer. But Oliver still thought of her as his kid sister, who needed to be protected. And he thought of his past, his trauma, as something to be ashamed of. He would never risk losing Thea's admiration by telling her what were, to Oliver's mind, unspeakable horrors. 

What Oliver needed was someone he could trust, but wouldn't panic about losing their friendship. Ideally someone who had some understanding of what he was going through, and how to get through it. Someone like John Diggle, 105th Airborne, Retired. 

_Which would work great, if only we were on speaking terms._ Which brought him back to the original problem. John shoved the thought aside to focus on the immediate problem, which was: Oliver was on his way to the courthouse. 

The courthouse wasn't a problem in itself. The death-in-absentia reversal would be a simple enough process. But the entrance to the courthouse was surrounded by reporters, hoping for a scoop or a quote or a photo. The moment Oliver stepped out of the car, he would be mobbed by people shoving him, pointing machinery in this face, and shouting exactly the kinds of questions most likely to trigger flashbacks. 

He had brought his concerns to Moira, although he'd left out the part about triggering panic attacks, and simply discussed his uncertainty about being able to spot threats in a crowd of that density. Moira, to her credit, had been eager to assist in anyway she could, but their options were limited. Even the Queen fortune couldn't buy a private entrance to the courthouse. And a police escort would require a credible threat to Oliver, which they didn't have. All they could do was get Oliver to the security perimeter of the courthouse as quickly as possible. 

-

It was as bad as he'd imagined. John alternated between scanning the crowd for potential threats, and keeping Oliver upright and moving. The questions were coming too thick and fast for John to identify which ones were painful, but he could feel Oliver's reaction to them, through his hand on Oliver's arm. Every few steps, Oliver would freeze, as if he'd been hit, then jerk himself into motion again. John cleared their path as best he could, and tried to convey support and sympathy through his grip. As they reached the court's security point, John peeled off, and focused on keeping reporters as far from Oliver as possible, until the Queen party disappeared through the entrance, and the mob hared off to a new target.

John couldn't take his gun through security, and Moira felt that Oliver would be safe enough inside a secured government building. John worried about letting Oliver face a potential stressor alone -- he was willing to bet the "prepared statement" hadn't been prepared with trauma triggers in mind -- but he liked the idea of being unequipped to provide security even less. So he stood patiently outside, and prepared to latch instantly onto Oliver as soon as he came through the door.

\------

When Oliver did return, he'd managed to ditch Moira and Walter, leaving only Tommy Merlyn. Later, John would think that he should have recognized that as a sign, but at the time, all his focus was on getting Oliver to the car before the reporters spotted him. Martin Somers was giving a statement to the press, and if they moved quickly, they could be in the car and gone before anyone realized they were there. 

Unfortunately, Oliver appeared to be equally captivated by Somers' protestations of innocence. _C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, Oliver, move_. It had been simple to determine where the security perimeter started; he had only to watch how close the reporters were willing to approach the courthouse. Somers had moved out towards the street to make his statement, but Oliver stood on the courthouse steps, watching the businessman. _I can't come up there, Oliver; I need you to walk off those steps._

"I will fight this slander to my last dime and breath. That's all I have to say. Thank you."  
As Somers walked away, several things broke at once: a reporter shouted "There's Mister Queen!" -- Oliver _finally_ started down the steps -- and John moved to step between the two. 

Oliver's forward momentum took him past the mob, allowing John to escort him while keeping reporters back. "Step back everybody. Please step back." He managed to get Oliver into the backseat, then turned around as he closed the door. "Everybody please step back." John's worry for Oliver, anger _with_ Oliver, and his tension from searching for threats finally snapped as a photographer leaned past him to try to catch Oliver in the car. "Hey, man, I'll make you swallow that Nikon! Back!" 

John froze, recognizing the danger of his own temper before he consciously realized what had caused it: the sound of squealing tires, as the Queen's car drove off without him. He turned to see it already at the end of the block. Tommy Merlyn made eye contact looking back from his own astonished gawk. "This happens to you a lot, doesn't it?" 

A distant part of John wondered whether Tommy had noticed that Oliver had reappeared at the party without his bodyguard, or if Tommy was just guessing based on his own knowledge of Oliver's temperament. Hell, Tommy had gotten ditched nearly as often as John had; maybe he was offering sympathy. John was too busy flexing his fingers, spreading them apart, to try to analyze Tommy's tone.


	6. Smile When You're Ready

It started off as a routine dressing-down. No, he didn't deserve it, but arguing never got you anywhere in the Army, and he didn't imagine it would help here either. So he simply stood at-ease while Moira delivered an unnecessarily sarcastic and patronizing lecture.

Until she asked him to spy on her son.

Oh, she didn't say it that way. But John had experienced enough make-you-feel-bad-so-you'll-do-whatever-I-say lectures to recognize one. The sudden change of topic, the sudden lack of anger .. she was hoping he'd feel guilty for "screwing up", so that he'd be willing to tell her everything he knew. 

Only John knew he hadn't screwed up. Moira could split hairs all she wanted about her paying the bills making her the client, but the fact remained that if Oliver wanted to escape, John had limited ability to prevent it. So instead of feeling guilty, he was instead left wondering why it was so important to Moira that he _should_ feel guilty. 

Generic desire to humiliate the help? Racism? Did she herself feel guilty about neglecting Oliver, and was trying to divert that guilt by accusing someone else? 

Or had she hired John with the intent of having someone spy on her son?

 _Bloody hell. No wonder Oliver has trust issues. They may not even stem from his 5 years away._

At any rate, if there _was_ a conflict between mother and son, John had no difficulty picking a side. "Ma'am, I truly have no idea." 

"Aaaaaaannnnnd he truly doesn't." Oliver entered the room with his normal vacuous grin, distracting Moira's attention to himself. John reverted to his invisible-bodyguard stance, surprised at the reprieve. Oliver was guaranteed a parental lecture now, and he could easily have avoided it simply by walking around front parlor. Had he stepped in on purpose? John felt oddly touched. 

His eyes narrowed as Oliver implied that he was spending his "unsupervised" time with prostitutes. "I promise to introduce you if we ever get to the ... exchanging first names stage." Oliver, the boy who still flinched every time someone moved too quickly in his peripheral vision? The kid who froze in silent tension every time someone touched him? If asked to lay odds, John would guess that Oliver's chance of achieving orgasm with another person in the room were below 20%. Not out of the question ... but unlikely. 

But then where was he going? _Well, if his mother regularly hires bodyguards to spy on him, perhaps he just wants some alone time._ It certainly explained why Oliver kept ditching him. It was going to complicate their relationship, though. 

And understandable or not, it interfered with John's ability to do his job. And dammit, when John Diggle was given a job to do, he _did_ it. Properly. _We have got to come up with some other solution._

He kept his temper -- though it was a near thing -- when Oliver apologized. To his credit, Oliver did look sincere. It helped, some. The simple, direct look he gave John -- so soon after that farce of a story he'd given his mother -- reminded Digg of what he was trying to accomplish. It gave him sufficient strength to walk away, to swallow the tongue-lashing he wanted to give.

He paused, once he was out of sight, to breathe deeply and try to relax his muscles. So he was in earshot while Thea Queen bragged of her ability to defeat her brother by drinking herself into insensibility instead. _Interesting that she recognized her brother as a pickpocket._ His heart ached for both of them. Both were trying to find a way to connect; neither could hear anything but attack in the other's words. 

Oliver took his sister's anger silently, which John was starting to recognize as Oliver's response to anything that truly hurt him. Thea walked away before either sibling lost their temper. 

_You can't fix that problem, Johnny. Focus on what you can do._ John shook his head, and walked away as well.

\--------------------------------

Another day, another security job for a high-strung, emotional ex-castaway. John followed silently as Moira proudly escorted Oliver through the Queen Consolidated building. John passed the time trying to determine whether she was showing off the company to Oliver, or vice-versa.

There wasn't a lot of benefit to thinking ill of his client, and of course no one liked to imagine that parents could be as much a source of PTSD as 5 years of constant violence. But now that he knew to look for it, it was becoming increasingly clear that Moira was a source of stress for Oliver. 

John had worried about him in the crowd at his welcome-home party, but Oliver had handled it with minimal tension. John had worried about him in the mob of reporters at the courthouse, but Oliver -- though clearly in pain -- had remained functional throughout. 

In fact, with more than a week as Oliver's bodyguard, John was starting to relax some. Oliver was tense, yes, and on a hair trigger. But he seemed to be aware of his own instability, and had it locked down. He was lost, frightened, and hurting, but he wouldn't take out half a dozen civilians in a moment of panicked trauma. Which meant that John could stop worrying about having to protect other people from Oliver, and could focus on protecting Oliver from Oliver -- at least until today. 

Now, inside a secured building owned by his family, escorted by a bodyguard and his mother, Oliver was the most hyped-up John had ever seen him -- and his balanced, tense stillness grew with every floor the elevator rose. Oliver did not want to be in this building at all, but he especially did not want to be on the top floor. Which meant, John realized as the elevator doors swooshed open, that he did not want to be in the CEO's suite, which took up the entire top story of the QC building. 

Oliver flirted with female employees in a voice that was a little too high-pitched. He smiled, whenever his mother looked at him, just a little too big. He couldn't hold still waiting for whatever Moira wanted with this get-together, but instead paced around the office, just a little too quickly to seem casual. John watched from the doorway, a frown on his face, worrying again that he might have to take down his own protectee. 

Walter & Moira glanced at each other. Apparently Walter was the designated speaker; he looked uncomfortable, but started to explain Queen Consolidated's business strategies. 

Oliver was trying to play the Disinterested Playboy, but overshot, in his nervousness, to Spoiled Petulant Child. John kept his eyes unfocused, to maximize his peripheral vision, but he could hear Moira's exasperated grunt from the back of her throat. "Sweetheart! Oliver... Walter and I have something to discuss with you. Come. Please sit."

 _No way in hell._ John thought, at the same moment that Oliver said, "Mom, it makes me .. nervous when you ask me to sit down."

John glanced up in surprise. Oliver's voice had gone up another half-step, and his eyes shifted rapidly, betraying his discomfort, but he stood up straight and expressed his needs in a firm, clear statement. Even John's army shrink would have approved. 

Moira, by her startled headshake, didn't understand. Confirmation came a few seconds later, when she ignored Oliver's instantaneous "No" and pushed hard to force him into a position that clearly made him deeply uncomfortable. _Does she truly not see how upset he's getting? Or does she imagine she's somehow helping him? Or_ , chillingly, _does she not care, as long as she has another opportunity to keep him under control, or at least surveillance?_ It bothered John, this determination to know everything Oliver did. Moira seemed to believe that Oliver needed to be shaken up, but John's gut said that Oliver needed the opposite -- time to relax, settle down, and rebalance. John gave a gentle sigh, waiting for the outcome he could see coming, but had no way to prevent. 

"Which part, though? Everyone fantasizing that I got my MBA while I was on the island? Or the fact that my father's CFO now sleeps _down the hall from me!?_ "

"You know, five years ago, your irresponsibility was _somewhat_ charming. It is a lot less so now."

Oliver held eye contact, as if determined to take his full punishment, until both Moira and Walter had left. Then he lowered his eyes and bowed his head. 

John watched, aching. He and Oliver were a lot alike; he could feel the resonance when Oliver's emotions got strong. They were both determined to do their duty; both honor-bound to accept the consequences of their actions, and bear the penalty when they did something wrong.

The difference was, John could recognize when something _wasn't_ his fault, and refuse to carry the guilt someone else assigned to him. Oliver truly believed the hurtful things his family said to him, and believed their anger was his just due. 

_You don't owe them their fantasies, Oliver. You have every right to heal your own way, in your own time._ But how do you convince someone of that?


	7. Solitary

Growing up, John couldn't understand why his father was never around on the 4th of July. His dad had served in the Marines, and was as patriotic as any three of their neighbors, but every year on the Fourth, around mid-afternoon, his dad would disappear. He would slip down to the harbor, and take his fishing boat out on the ocean, farther than was really safe for a boat of that size -- out over the horizon. John went with him one year, but couldn't understand why you would want to sit on a boat for hours, too far away to see the fireworks. 

When he came back from Afghanistan the first time, John understood. And he understood a lot of other things, too. Why his dad didn't talk much. Why, sometimes, their dad had caught him or Andy doing something wrong, and would simply turn around and walk out of the house without saying a word. Why sometimes John would wake up to use the bathroom and find his dad sitting in front of the TV, wide awake at 3 in the morning. 

His dad never did become one for talking, much. But sometimes, when John had to walk away before he did something he'd regret, his dad would follow. John would sit on his bed, shaking, and his dad would just sit next to him, silently. And when John got himself under control, his dad would grasp his forearm, and give him a nod, and John would feel less alone. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 _You're not alone, man._ John stood in the empty CEO suite of Queen Consolidated, watching Oliver wrestle with his pain. Of course Oliver felt alone. He fought with his sister; he couldn't tolerate his stepfather; and now his mother had walked out on him. 

John had sometimes felt alone even when surrounded by support and love from his family. Could he substitute for all of Oliver's loved ones? _I don't know, but I've got to try._

There was no point in saying anything right now. Oliver was so wrapped up in himself he probably couldn't hear John if he _did_ try to offer comfort. It was an enormous gesture of trust, in a way, that Oliver would allow himself to shut out the world, trusting that John would protect him; trusting that John was not a threat. 

Finally, Oliver looked up. Like he had on the night of his welcome-home party, he didn't even glance at John; just found the nearest door, and headed for it. John followed behind, closing doors, calling elevators, until they got to the lobby, and the front doors of Queen Consolidated. 

_Dammit_ , John thought. Apparently it was a slow news day; a mob of reporters was camped between them and the limo. He stepped up beside Oliver and took his arm. 

On the plus side, Oliver was so detached, he scarcely seemed to notice the shouted questions. They got to the car quickly, and John shut the limo's door on the whole lot. 

"Driver'll be here in a minute."

Oliver didn't respond for a few seconds. When he did, it was in the tone of someone who was concentrating all of their willpower to control their voice. "OK."

 _Now?_ There was no way to tell. No rule can determine when to talk to someone, and when to hold back; when to push, and when to let go. But the vibe John was getting said Oliver needed contact, so he started talking before he'd consciously decided to try. 

"You know, I spent the first 27 years of my life in Starling City and the next 5 in Afghanistan, you wanna know what I learned?"

"There's no place like home?" Oliver still sat with his body twisted away, gazing out the window, but John was relieved to get any response at all. If Oliver was listening, there was a chance John could get through to him. 

"No, just the opposite. 'Home' is a battlefield. Back home, they're all trying to get you... get you to open up, be somebody you're not sure you are any more."

Oliver said nothing. John tried another push. "Or I could be wrong. Maybe after 5 years alone, you're not as messed up in the head as you have every right to be."

It would be an exaggeration to say that Oliver looked startled -- one of Oliver's responses to pain was to shut down his expression. But he swallowed, and took a breath. He closed his eyes, and then opened them again. And the fact that he responded _at all_ conveyed his surprise more eloquently than any exclamation could have. As if it had never occurred to him that he had a right to be screwed up. That his problems now were the result of the very thing that kept him alive while he was gone. 

_You're not alone, man._ John looked out the window again. _Please. Let me help._


	8. Unsecured

"Digg, you and I both know that me having a bodyguard is pointless. My mom is paranoid, but no one has attacked me the whole time you've been here. Because no one is going to attack me. That one time was a fluke, and it's over." 

Oliver flashed a grin, and Digg could see why he'd had so much luck as a party playboy before his ... exile. The boy was charming, and he knew how to use it, when he chose. 

John made no response. Partly because not-speaking was his natural state. Partly because he didn't want to get sucked into arguing with Oliver the way Moira did. Partly because Oliver's argument was dead wrong, and he suspected Oliver knew it. So he simply stood at-ease and held eye contact with Oliver. 

After a moment, Oliver looked away. He exhaled sharply, and his lips compressed. "You asked me not to ditch you, and I'm trying to honor that. But I can't live my life with you at my shoulder every second. I do need some space." He looked back at John. "Bodyguards sometimes wait outside, if their client is engaging in confidential negotiations. You wouldn't be neglecting your duty."

John considered. He hated the idea of leaving Oliver unattended. Especially since that would just make it easier for Oliver to escape, if he was so inclined. 

But if he wanted Oliver to trust him, he had to extend trust. He couldn't connect with Oliver while doubting his honor. Laurel had offered last week, to be there if Oliver needed someone to talk to. And Oliver most definitely did. If there was a chance he might open up to someone....

"All right." John nodded. "Here's how we'll do it. I'll escort you to the apartment door." He increased his glare as Oliver started to protest. "I need to know _exactly_ where in the building you are. I will drop you off, make a sweep of the building and the perimeter, and wait outside. But if anything suspicious happens -- in _my_ judgement -- I will join you upstairs." John tilted his head. "Do we have an agreement?"

\--

John finished his patrol of the apartment building, ending up at the front steps. _Now what?_ He eyed the patrol car, with two armed policemen, parked in front of the building. _Bet we'll all feel better if I coordinate with them._

He approached from the front, then walked to the passenger side, where a window was rolled down to admit the warm autumn evening. "John Diggle. 105th Airborne, out of Kandahar. Retired."

\---  
_Well that was enlightening._

The cops, it turned out, were providing security for Laurel Lance the same way he was providing it for Oliver Queen. Once they'd realized they were all working the same job, they'd agreed it made good sense to work together. The cops would watch the door, while John covered the other sides of the building; either party would notify the other, in case of an event that required heightened alert. 

They'd also exchanged gossip, which left John with a substantially better understanding of Oliver's situation. Apparently Oliver and Laurel had dated for about two years, while John was on his second tour. When Oliver had "died", Detective Lance's youngest daughter -- Laurel's little sister -- had died also. Although no one could confirm it, office gossip assumption was that Oliver had been cheating on Laurel -- with her sister -- when the boat went down. 

_And that's who he chooses to spend his evening with?_ Then again, it kind of made sense. John had been thinking just this morning that Oliver needed someone to talk to, someone he wasn't afraid of losing their good opinion. He would know Laurel well enough to talk to her, and yet also assume he'd already lost her. _It does kind of make sense._

\----------

He was on the southeast corner of the building when he heard a noise from above. He didn't break stride, but walked to the other end of the building as usual. Then he paused to stretch his back at the corner, and took a sneak peek while rotating his neck. 

Three bodies, on the fire escape. There were five apartments that could be accessed from that fire escape, but the only thing that mattered to John was that one of them was Laurel's. He took a few steps as-if casually, then broke into a run as soon as he rounded the corner. 

-

It was a bit of a blur, from there. He'd come to the front, and gotten close enough to register that the two cops were dead, before racing up the stairs to Laurel's apartment. Heard gunshots before he could get to the door. Started taking out threats the moment he had line of sight on them. Fought hand-to-hand with one of them, who escaped before he could take them down. Verified Oliver & Laurel were OK. Might possibly have shouted "I told you so" at his employer. Swept the apartment to verify security and to get notes for the AAR, before he remembered that he was a private contractor. 

His first clear memory was watching Detective Lance try to tell his daughter that both of the cops assigned to watch her had been killed. John had been in that situation, trying to process the loss of subordinates, of teammates, of friends. It would be cruel to make Lance say it out loud. John stepped in; gave a nod to Lance's look of gratitude. 

So it wasn't until he was back at the Queen mansion, getting bandaged up, that it really hit him. While Oliver went for medical supplies. John sat and thought his way through it. Could he have misunderstood? Or misremembered?

He had only flashes. Picture: his white-haired assailant, with a knife pointed at his throat. Picture: Oliver Queen in a perfect knife-throwing stance. Picture: a butcher knife lying on the carpet, dripping with ice cream and blood. 

When the pressure on his arm had let up, John had reacted on instinct. It didn't matter _why_ his opponent had give him an opening; only that the opening existed. 

But no matter how many times he thought it through, he could find only one explanation that made sense: Oliver Queen had saved John Diggle's life by throwing a knife into the woman who was about to slit his throat. A kitchen knife. Accurately. Not a kill shot, no, but enough to draw blood, and without coming anywhere near John. From across the apartment. 

_'Me having a bodyguard is pointless' indeed._ John could feel his worldview reshaping itself.

John looked up as Oliver came around the corner; tossed over an ice pack. John caught it one-handed. _The camaraderie of combat._ There was nothing like fighting together to make people work like a team.

"I'd say thank you, but I don't think that'd cover it." Oliver was still wound up, stalking around the room like he needed a wall to punch out. 

"Well, like I told your cop friend, I was just doin' my job." John smiled, grateful. "Besides, I think it should be _you_ that I'm thanking."

Oliver froze. Turned. Thought furiously. Decided on the Play Dumb tactic. "What for?"

John gave him a level look. "The knife."

It was fascinating to watch, really. Oliver went through an amazing array of facial expressions in such a short period of time. He jerked his head in surprise. He opened his mouth to speak. He closed his eyes like someone who has just realized he'd fucked up big time. He nodded like someone forced to acknowledge a tough reality. He looked back to John with a version of his Charming Grin. "... The knife." He looked at John intensely, as if hoping he could change John's memory by sheer force of will. "I got lucky."

John felt his temper swell dangerously. _We've fought together, kid. Don't you lie to me._ "That was a kitchen knife. It wasn't even weighted properly, yet you threw for accuracy across a ten foot room."

Oliver held his blank stare, his empty grin. "Exactly. I got lucky."

John was on edge, coming down from a combat high, reaching out to a man he'd come to see -- somehow, over the last day -- as a friend. The rejection of his gratitude was like a slap in the face. "I'm not the kind of man you want to take for a fool, Mr. Queen, you understand me?" John stepped closer, right up into Oliver's face.

Oliver stood his ground, but the drill-sergeant tone still had an effect on him; his "Yes" came quickly and quietly, without argument or caveat.

John pulled himself back from the edge of his anger. Tried again. "And I think I'm just beginning to understand the kind of man you are."

"Shouldn't take you very long." With his temper starting to wear off, John could once again recognize the pain in Oliver's eyes as he spoke what he thought was the truth. "I'm shallow." Oliver remembered his facade, inhaled. "And very tired. So ... good night."

John looked after him, searching for words. Words had never been his strong point. Finally he shook his head. "Good night, sir."


	9. Turnabout

John frowned when Oliver gestured him ahead. They'd approached the Queen Consolidated Applied Science groundbreaking from behind the stage, arriving a few minutes after the appointed time. He turned a questioning look to Oliver. 

"I'm not gonna run for it. I promise. I just have to do this my way." Oliver hesitated, and looked down. He swallowed, and then said in a carefully controlled tone, "Please?"

John eyed him, nodded, and stepped forward to take a position in the audience, near the stage, as Walter began his speech. 

About 30 seconds later he turned, with the rest of the audience, to watch Oliver come in loudly, drain a champagne glass, and take over the press conference with every appearance of someone who had partied all night long, through the morning, and arrived at the 10AM press conference roaring drunk. 

Except John knew that Oliver had spent the evening in Laurel's apartment, plus some combat and recovery from combat. And he hadn't been the least bit chemically impaired when he'd left John less than a minute ago. 

_What is he playing at?_

Clarity came a minute or so later, when Oliver started talking about Moira's intended announcement for this groundbreaking, about his "rightful place" as heir. Queen Consolidated could never afford the PR of appointing Oliver to a position after this debacle; the newsies would throw fits about "blatant nepotism" and "obviously unfit". John kept his expression carefully neutral -- the last thing he wanted was for Moira to look over and see him grinning -- but mentally he applauded. _That was well done, Oliver. I would never have thought of it, but it will work. It will definitely work._

"I'm not my father. I'm not the man he was; I'm not half the man he was. So please...stop asking me to be." Oliver pushed his way offstage, and walked away, leaving a stunned silence behind him. John waited a beat and then followed, like the good, silent, non-judgmental bodyguard he played so well. 

He waited until they were well out of earshot, as well as out of sight, before he spoke. "That was well done, sir."

Oliver stopped dead. John kept walking, and could feel Oliver's astonished eyes on his back as he headed towards the car. _Confused? Good. Serves you right._ John permitted himself a hint of a smile as Oliver caught up to him. They walked to the Queen limo together.


	10. Code of Honor

Curare.

John listened to the news every morning while getting ready for work, in the long-standing habit of one whose life might be uprooted by the current international situation. ISIS and Syria and Afghan rebels hadn't been his problem for almost half a decade, but he still flipped on the TV first thing every morning, and listened with half an ear as the anchors rambled on about whatever was the deemed the biggest threat today. Lately, it had mostly been the Starling City Vigilante, and when James Holder, resident slumlord, had been found dead in his rooftop pool, John assumed it was more of the same.

Until the word 'curare' caught his attention, as it always did, and always would.

It hadn't even been the curare that killed Andy. The assassin had missed his shot so badly, he hadn't even grazed the target. Andrew Diggle had died with two 7.62mm rounds directly through his heart, as if he'd been the protectee instead of the bodyguard. The curare was just a sadistic addition - a bonus 'Fuck You' from Lawton.

John fought back a snarl, and turned the volume up.

The media was speculating that The Hood had changed up his tactics, but John recognized the signs. Holder had died from a 7.62mm round, through the heart, laced with curare. Floyd Lawton, AKA Deadshot, was back in town.

And there wasn't a damned thing John Diggle could do about it.

\----

_If I contacted Lyla again, she might be able to pass me some info on where Lawton is..._

John pulled his thoughts away from this unproductive and dangerous line of thought, and brought his attention back to Starling City traffic.

_I wonder if the Starling City Vigilante is available for hire. He'd be branching out a bit but he could probably find Lawton and ..._

John slammed the steering wheel with his fist, and turned on the radio to try to distract himself. There was no way Lawton would stick around town anyway, with his target down.

_But maybe he has multiple targets, and if I could find the pattern in them I could .._

_Dammit, John, no! You didn't learn combat skills so you could come back here and beat on whoever you hold a grudge against. You fight to protect this country, under the directive of legal authorities, or you don't fight at all._

Fortunately, that tirade brought him to the driveway of the Queen mansion. _Get your head together, John. Focus on the job._ He growled under his breath, and turned off the car.


	11. The Great Game

Fortunately for John's focus, if not for Queen Family happiness, Thea had gotten herself arrested last night, which gave him something to think about beside curare and assassins who use it. He turned as he heard Oliver's step in the hallway behind him.

Oliver glanced quickly around the parlor, taking in the scene. "What happened? Thea OK?" he whispered.

John quietly filled him in on Thea's exploits. Oliver's eyes never left his sister, though his increasingly grim expression showed he was listening.

"So how was your evening, sir?"

"You mean after I said I had to go to the bathroom at dinner and never came back?" Oliver finally tore his gaze away from Thea and met John's eyes.

Ever since the night of the attack in Laurel's apartment, John had given up trying to keep Oliver under supervision at all times. It was clear he wasn't a danger to others. And it was clear that others weren't a danger to him. If he wanted some space, well ... no harm to it.

But was a point of pride to John Diggle that he did his job, and did it well. So even if he wasn't going to scold Oliver for escaping, he wasn't going to just let it happen, either. The truth was, it had become something of a game for them. He tried hard to foresee every possible technique Oliver might use to slip the leash, and to cut them off. Oliver worked hard to find loopholes in Digg's supervision. When he was beaten, John worked hard to ensure Oliver couldn't ditch him in the same way twice. "I guess from now on I'll be watching you pee."

John had many years' experience keeping a neutral face, and he was very good at it - the corners of his mouth didn't twitch up at all. How long that would stay true, he wasn't sure. He and Oliver stared at each other, each determined not to crack a grin first. Oliver finally broke, and pushed past John before they both broke out in utterly inappropriate laughter.

\------------ 


	12. Crusade

After a slow morning that left John _way_ too much time to think, Oliver finally met Tommy to explain his proposed new project: a nightclub in a foundry that had once held Queen Consolidated's steelworks. _One more victim of offshoring._

John had been in town when the Queen Foundry closed. He remembered the news stories. Remembered the increase in people asking him about joining the military. He remembered weighing his words, trying to help people balance the trauma of combat against the hell of a slow death in the Glades, unable to provide for their families.

The Glades had been in a slow decline for most of John's life, although -- like his father's illness -- he hadn't noticed it as a child. It seemed like it had accelerated in the last 5 - 10 years; the new economy was all well and good, but most of the residents of the Glades didn't have access to it. Teachers struggled to impart knowledge to students who had a lot bigger concerns than finding x or identifying a participle. The fancy computer labs were at least a decade out of date, and internet speeds were slow. At least half the students dropped out at age 16 anyway, compelled by economic necessity to start earning an income. The only decently-paying jobs were the ones that had to pay extra for the danger; drug runner or military, as often as not. There was no time, after 10- or 12-hour shifts, to get to night classes to learn the skills that would gain them entry to better-paying jobs in Starling City's downtown.

Thinking about the misery of the Glades was less painful than thinking about Lawton. About Andy.

He realized much too late that it didn't do anything to improve his attitude, especially in regards to rich white boys who treated Starling City as their own personal playground.

John had been only half-listening, as Tommy & Oliver teased each other and planned an evening of debauchery. The factory was fenced in; anyone approaching would have to make enough noise that John would hear them long before they got close enough to threaten Oliver. So John had slipped, and let himself get lost in his own brooding. Until Tommy left, and Oliver turned to him like a child showing off a new drawing to a parent.

"So ... what do you think?"

John straightened, and sought refuge in the neutrality that usually served him so well. "Well, sir, I'm here to provide security, not a commentary."

It was a bodyguard answer, not a friend's and John realized almost instantly that Oliver had received it as a rejection. He reverted to his default facade: the blank stare and charming smile, the I'm-just-kidding tone. "Aw, c'mon, Digg. Do me a favor! Speak freely. Please."

John winced internally. This nightclub idea was a new thing for Oliver; he was nervous, and he'd brought his two closest friends to show them his maybe-hope. Now one of those friends had acted as if they weren't friends at all.

 _The truth, or a polite lie?_ It went against all protocol, but the truth felt right. The polite lie was what an employee would say, and would confirm to Oliver that John didn't care. And anyway, he had Tommy for polite lies.

"Well, this is the Glades, right?" Oliver indicated agreement. "Your rich white friends wouldn't come to this neighborhood on a bet."

It was the right answer; Oliver relaxed. "I am Oliver Queen, right?" John, amused, indicated agreement. "People would stand in line for 3 hours if I opened a club."

"And no one who actually lives in the Glades would see a penny of those cover charges." That was a bit daring, even for the maybe-friendship John and Oliver had developed. But after a morning brooding on the decline in his home that had -- indirectly -- killed his brother, John had little patience for schemes to further the Queen fortune. 

Oliver's response was the swift surety of privilege. "So we make it a successful business... we gentrify the neighborhood."

John's eyes rolled before he could stop himself. "I was wondering when we would get to that." John cut himself off before he got into deeper trouble.

But it was too late. Oliver tilted his head questioningly, and John realized he'd have to elaborate. "The white knight, swooping in to save the disenfranchised..." _Especially since that kind of change requires a concerted team effort, and Oliver Queen's idea of teamwork..._ John had a sudden image of Oliver on a one-man quest to save the city, and the thought made him smile. "And all by his lonesome, with no help from anybody."

"Wow. You don't think very much of me, do you?" Oliver continued to smile, but his eyes got flatter, to hide his pain. 

"No, actually, sir, I have a very high regard for how .. perceptive you are." _After all, most clients never notice my disdain for them._ John grinned. "Sir."

Oliver's expression didn't change, but he looked at John instead of through him, and nodded, once. John smiled and turned away.


	13. Ditched

-  
It wasn't until he got back to the car that he realized Oliver wasn't following.

It wasn't until he got back to the foundry that he realized Oliver had disappeared. John controlled a quick surge of anger. _I honestly can't blame him. I haven't given him an opening this good in days. Goddammit, Diggle! You're going to get someone killed. Forget about Lawton, OK? Just focus on the job, alright?_

But he didn't. He couldn't. Without Oliver around to guard -- and the kid seemed to have no interest in showing up at home any time soon -- John had nothing to distract him from his thoughts. He even risked a reprimand from Moira to eavesdrop on Detective Lance's conversation -- he caught Walter's eye and got a nod of permission to stay -- but that turned out to be a warning that someone was using 7.62mm ammo to drop rich folks. _He did have more than one target._

"There are a lot of potential buyers, and the auction is tomorrow. If I was taking down the competition, I'd have a lot of killing to do in a very short amount of time."

_Deadshot might be able to pull it off, though. But I have a lead. If I can track down who's at the top of the bidding, I could triage the list of most likely targets and maybe find Lawton ... Dammit, John, no!_

_You fight under the directive of legal authorities, or you don't fight at all._  
\----------------

"I don't see your name on the list." The bouncer barred John's path with a velvet rope.

John sighed. "Mister Queen!"

Oliver turned around, and smiled as if to say _Sorry; I forgot_ , before he leaned in to talk to the bouncer. "I have never seen this guy before in my life."

The wink he gave as he turned away did nothing to improve John's temper.

Well....

...Fuck

-

_GodDAMMIT, John! You ARE going to get someone killed. That's the second time today! Fucking FOCUS, Diggle._

Except now Oliver was in the club, and would probably be there for hours. Which meant that once again, John would be stuck for hours, with nothing to distract his thoughts from Andy.

When he got back from Afghanistan, John -- like many vets -- had been on a hair trigger. And when he'd come back from a combat zone to see, with fresh eyes, exactly what was being done to his home, it had made him feel hopeless. Like everything he'd fought for was a lie.

Equality? Not hardly. Oh, John had no concern about equality of outcomes -- people don't work, or they behave stupidly, and they fail; that's part of life. But America claimed to have equal opportunity, and pointed to a handful of rare exceptions in the great socio-economic game, while ignoring the vast inequalities most people experienced. To claim that the public-school students in the Glades had the same educational opportunity as the onepercenters in their private school, with their private tutors was ... stretching the idea of equality.

Justice, then. Equality under the law? Not while slumlords like James Holder could kill people with faulty wiring and escape even the slightest prosecution for negligence.

“A chicken in every pot and a car in every garage"? Well, technically speaking, that promise didn't apply to people who didn't have a garage .... or a cooking pot.

John had been filled with despair, and with fury. Which, combined with his near-constant adrenaline surges and well-honed combat skills, had led to ... more than a few nights in lock-up for brawling. Andy was disengaged, struggling with his own problems. Their mother was sympathetic and loving, but couldn't contain the ball of rage John had become. 

It was their father who got through to him. Who sat him down and talked him through -- without judgement, without pity -- exactly what was driving him. That the anger might be justified, but it wasn't helping. That beating the shit out of random people on the street wasn't improving life in the Glades.

He sat down and helped John find the parts of him that were stronger than anger. His honor. His determination to do his duty. And they made a rule to help him guide his decisions. _You fight to protect this country, under the directive of legal authorities, or you don't fight at all._

John leaned against the wall of the nightclub, and repeated his mantra to himself, and thought about Andy.


	14. Fealty

As it turned out, he only had to occupy himself for half an hour before Oliver and Tommy were shoved out the door with bloody noses and bruised eye sockets. Oliver managed to convert the forward momentum into a jump, and landed on the sidewalk with reasonable grace. John caught Tommy before he stumbled into the street. Once both boys were stably upright, and John had checked the door to ensure the fight wasn't being carried outside, he turned a sardonic and questioning eyebrow to Oliver.

Oliver shrugged, the way he did when he was trying to convince his mother something was no big deal. "Max Fuller remembered me. Tommy stood up for me." John nodded understanding. Alone, Oliver could have taken out a couple of nightclub bouncers. It's possible he could have done so without doing permanent damage. But he certainly couldn't do it with Tommy in the mix. And for whatever reason, he judged it more important to keep his combat abilities a secret than to avoid getting beat up.

John looked over to Tommy, who was almost certainly exactly what Oliver pretended to be: a spoiled, self-indulgent party playboy with no self-defense skills or situational training. And yet, knowing he would be beat to a pulp, he'd chosen to step into the fight anyway. That spoke of a courage and determination that John was willing to bet few other people knew about -- including Tommy Merlyn, probably.

It also spoke of a loyalty and love that went much deeper than John had given Tommy credit for. _Oliver, man, you're not alone. Just look around you._

At any rate, they'd earned some comfort and assistance. "Come on, boys. Milkshakes on me."

-

He'd been meaning to swing by Big Belly Burger anyway; it had been a while since he checked in on Carly. And everyone there knew him well enough to not ask questions when he arrived with two white boys with black eyes. "Why don't you guys, ah.." he spotted Carly, and waved, "take a seat, and I will grab a couple burgers and ice for those faces."

Tommy followed John's gaze and made a noise of aesthetic appreciation. "Girl's pretty cute."

"That's my sister-in-law."

John's tone held no threat. It didn't need to. Tommy took one look at Digg's blank expression and started backpedaling furiously. "Who I will never speak to. Or look at." John held his level stare. "Ever. Gonna grab a booth." Tommy hurried away.

"She's not wearing a wedding ring." Oliver observed. John glanced at him. "Brother out of the picture?"

John tried to imagine how to answer that question without breaking social conventions about showing emotion in public. Finally he looked back to Carly, remembering the day he'd had to bring her news of Andy.

"Yeah.. you could say that." He walked away from Oliver, put his hand on Carly's shoulder. "Hey, you."

Carly smiled at him. "It's so sweet of you to adopt two white boys. They need a good role model."

_Boy, do they._ John thought, and smiled back. "That's my client, Oliver Queen."

Carly raised an eyebrow as Oliver eased himself painfully into a window booth. "And it looks like you are doing a bang-up job of protecting him."

"Mm," John acknowledged the truth of that. They stood together silently for a moment, watching Oliver and Tommy talk quietly.

Carly turned back to him, spoke seriously. "How dangerous is this gig, anyway?"

John tried to look casual and confident. "It's a cakewalk, Carly, don't worry."

She didn't respond until John looked back at her. So he was looking in her eyes as she said "Too late. Or have you forgotten this job got your brother killed? Because, Digg, I haven't. I can't." She pulled away and walked into the kitchen.

_Trust me, I haven't either._ John stared across the restaurant, folding his hands together to keep them from making fists.

*

He'd turned and leaned on the bar, hoping to catch Carly's eye again, but she was avoiding him. So when he grabbed two baskets, each with a cheeseburger and fries, and turned back towards the window, he probably shouldn't have been surprised to see Oliver gone, Tommy sitting at the booth alone. _Why not? It's the kind of day I've been having._ He was almost too tired to even be angry anymore.

He thought about throwing the food to the ground and storming out. He thought about going home. He thought about driving to the Queen mansion and quitting.

Strangely enough, what stopped him was the sight of Tommy, alone at a burger joint, ditched by the best friend he had just taken a beating for. Acting on impulse, John walked over and set a burger in front of Tommy anyway.

"This happens to you a lot, doesn't it?"

Tommy looked up, guiltily, as John sat down on the other side of the table. But John wasn't trying to intimidate, this time; he offered a small smile of sympathy, and gestured to the basket in front of Tommy. Tommy picked up the burger and took a bite.

"Ever since we were kids. When Ollie gets tired of me he just... walks away." Tommy put down the burger and swallowed. John wondered if he might cry, but Tommy only sat, perfectly expressionless, for 4 or 5 seconds, and then picked up his burger again.

John looked across the table. He'd bought only two burgers, since bodyguards don't eat on duty. But with Oliver gone, he wasn't really on duty, right? No point in letting good food go to waste. He pulled the other basket towards him and grabbed a fry.

They ate silently for a while. John was several bites into his burger before he broke the silence. "Why do you put up with it, then?" Tommy glanced at him, then quickly away. "Why not hang out with someone who respects you?"

Tommy snorted. "Who would that be? You? My father? Laurel?" He shook his head. "Hell, Ollie treats me better than most people I know."

More silence. This time it was Tommy who broke it. "And besides..." he paused, for so long that John thought perhaps he'd decided against speaking after all. "I just... really... like him."

Not sure what to say to that, John tilted his head questioningly.

"I know it sounds dumb. It _is_ dumb. But... " Tommy made a noise of exasperation -- with himself or with Oliver, John wouldn't venture a guess, "..he's stubborn, and he's moody, and he's ..." Tommy shook his head. "But when he gets focused on something, you can't help being dragged into along with him." 

A corner of Tommy's mouth crooked up. "When we were five, he was super into dinosaurs. I found a book, and I memorized the names of all of them, just so Ollie and I could talk about them. When we were eight, and he got into comic books, I begged my mother, and she bought me a full set of this rare, out-of-print story line ... and I was so excited, because it meant Ollie would come over _every day_ ... I guess ..." Tommy looked back at John "I guess I wanted, just once, to be as passionately dedicated to something -- anything -- as Ollie was to everything he did."

John nodded, thoughtfully. "And now?"

Tommy stared out the window for a long time. The half-eaten burgers sat between them, forgotten. "In the five years he was gone ... it became clear how much of the good things in my life came from him. My father calls me a disappointment. Moira .. means well, but she's not exactly warm and caring. Thea's my little sister, and I did my best to take care of her, but ..." Now tears did appear, at the corner of his eyes, ".. there was no one there for me."

John passed him a napkin, and waited while Tommy composed himself. Finally Tommy looked back across the table.

"Now I help him out however I can. I know he acts carefree all the time, but he's hurting, a lot. He _is_ ," he insisted, as if John had offered a protest. "And I'm gonna do whatever I can to make him feel better. And I know he's never going to be there for me in the same way. He's a bonfire, and I'm a .. a Zippo lighter .. and I'm never going to inspire anyone the way he does, but ... sometimes ... he'll smile, or he'll thank me, and I feel like I actually made a difference to someone, you know? Like something I did mattered." Tommy looked down at the table. "And that's probably the best I'm ever going to get, in this world."

John reached out, and placed his hand on top of Tommy's own. "I served three tours in Afghanistan, son, and let me tell you, the most valuable thing a man can have is someone he can trust to watch his back. Someone who will step up to the line for him, even if they get hurt in doing so." John took the forgotten, half-melted ice pack from the table and handed it to Tommy, who finally looked up. "Oliver's hurting a lot. You just keep on being there for him."

Tommy took the ice pack and pressed it to his cheek. They sat in silence for a while, but a considerably more comfortable silence than had started this meal. After a few minutes, Tommy spoke again.

"He ditches you as often as he does me. And I know Moira isn't that pleasant to work for. Why do _you_ stay with it? Why haven't you quit yet?"

John sighed, and stood up. "Come on. Let's get you home."


	15. Caught in the Crossfire

John kept his eyes moving around the lobby of the Exchange Building, focused on nothing in particular, to maximize peripheral vision. 

Oliver had declined to attend the Unidac auction. He said he would stay home and rest, that his clubbing last night had been very tiring. John had met Oliver's eyes at that, and said nothing. 

John had volunteered, since he wouldn't be needed to guard Oliver, to come along and provide security for Moira & Walter. Moira, initially inclined to scoff at the need, eventually agreed that having Mr. Diggle along would at least help keep Detective Lance from harassing them.

The fact was, John couldn't do anything to bring Andy back. And practically speaking, there was nothing he could do to stop Floyd Lawton from murdering for money. But right here, right now, John Diggle would by god stop Lawton from taking another life, tonight, in Starling City. And so he scanned the Exchange Building lobby with unfocused eyes. 

It wasn't like his usual guard duty. Although John was always diligent in his duties, most of the time there wasn't that much possibility of anything happening; he didn't have to be on highest alert.

But Lawton was out there, almost certainly, waiting to take a kill shot. This was more like sentry duty in Afghanistan, knowing snipers were out there in the dark, knowing he might need to move with a millisecond's reaction time. 

The adrenaline high was very much like fury: heart pounding, breathing rapid, hands trying to clench into fists. The _fight_ half of the fight-or-flight reaction would come in handy when the action started, but for now Diggle had to restrain himself carefully. 

Thea Queen came in, dressed for the occasion. Diggle noted it peripherally, as another data point. He wasn't so much _thinking_ now as he was _processing_ ; data from his senses was passed directly into his instincts. 

Oliver Queen entered; Diggle's eyes narrowed.

A part of his brain wanted to stop and analyze the meaning, the implications. Oliver had specifically said he wasn't coming, and now was showing up right at the end of the cocktail party? 

But a bigger, more disciplined part of his brain refused to be distracted. Oliver was another data point; that was all. On the plus side, a decent, competent fighter who kept a cool head until the action was over. On the minus side, an unpredictable factor. To be taken into consideration if (when) something went down. Digg glanced over as Oliver hailed him. 

"Digg! Got your eyes open?"

Digg was in Afghanistan-Sentry mode, and he answered the way he would have in Afghanistan. "That's what I'm here for, sir. That, and answering patronizing questions." He returned to his scan of the lobby.

Oliver didn't seem to notice the implied reprimand. "This guy's out of time! If he's gonna do something it's gonna happen before the auction."

Digg began to nod agreement, then did a double-take as he realized what Oliver had said. The comment didn't immediately seem odd, since Digg was thinking along the same lines. But why should Oliver be thinking along the same lines that Digg was? That _did_ break Digg's concentration. He looked at Oliver in surprise. "Sir?" 

As it had the night of the attack on Laurel, Oliver's expression froze as he realized what he'd said. "I heard the story on the radio."

This story was as clearly bullshit as the last one, and could be as easily unraveled. But it would require time and patience and attention, and Digg didn't have any of those things to spare right now. Digg went back to scanning the lobby.

Nor was he inclined to question when Oliver summoned Digg over and asked him to remove Moira and Thea from the premises. Digg agreed with the tactical assessment, and right now that was more important than knowing why Oliver was assessing tactics. But they'd need more than that to persuade Moira, and what could they possibly .... 

That train of thought shattered as Detective Lance suddenly gave a shout, pushed his way through the crowd, and tackled Walter just as a bullet broke through the plate-glass window. The bullet went over them and took out a helpless server instead. _Fucking A_. Given Lawton's dedication to his work, it was likely that had just doubled the kill count tonight; he would stay in his sniper's nest and try for another shot at Walter.

Digg's mind was running along many tracks simultaneously now. Lance was keeping Walter down, moving him out of Lawton's line of sight. Digg could do no more there. Oliver, Thea, and Moira were gathered together near the door; that made getting them out of the building Digg's next objective, even as he was processing through implications. 

Lawton had missed. That meant that Digg now had information he hadn't had when he started the night: He knew the direction Lawton was shooting from, and the target Lawton was shooting at. There was likely only one building that would serve, which meant he could find Lawton's nest. Lawton would stay a couple of minutes in hopes of another shot; that meant Digg might be able to get there in time to catch and kill the sonofabitch. 

These calculations flashed through his mind as he and Oliver argued over Digg's responsibility. When Oliver ran off, Moira was inclined to follow; Digg got her to evacuate by promising to pursue Oliver. 

It wasn't a calculation, or even a conscious thought. It was only later that Digg could lay out his reasons for making the decision; at the time, he was only acting. He had a responsibility to guard both Moira and Oliver. He could only be in one place, which meant he could only guard one. Moira was not the target. Oliver's behavior indicated he was going after Lawton, which would make him a target for a very deadly and desperate killer. Moira could be evacuated like the others; Oliver would need help. Digg pushed Moria in the direction of the back door, and headed for the stairs. 

He'd wondered, sometimes, if it was ridiculous to keep up his Special Forces workouts, even as he couldn't bring himself to stop. Now he blessed his daily training as he barreled up flight after flight of stairs without too much difficulty, dodging around an open trash can with its lid on the landing. Emerging on the roof, he began taking in data: he was alone on the roof. The night was clear, temperature mild. The Exchange Building was the shortest of the buildings in the vicinity. Orienting in the direction from which the shot had come, it was obvious where Lawton was: there was only one building in that direction, its top floor was under construction, and there was fighting going on in that construction zone. 

Digg went back through the door and started down the stairs at dangerous speed, using railings to round the corners faster, noting in passing an empty army-style duffle shoved in a corner. He burst out an emergency exit, dodged police cars to cross the street, and started up

The auction had been held near the top of the Exchange building; a few flights up was no problem. Down twenty flights of stairs, and up to the top floor of another building, that was an intense workout at sprint speeds.

Digg was good at pushing through pain, if he had reason to. What kept him going was the idea of finally, once and for all, taking Lawton down. If he could just get there in time. 

That focus kept him moving upwards as his heart pounded and his lungs burned.

It kept him from doing his normal reconnaissance before he ran through the door. 

It kept him moving, right into Floyd Lawton's line of fire. 

No matter how many times you've taken a bullet to the shoulder, it will always stop you for a few seconds. John was frustrated with Oliver. He was tired, from being on edge all evening. He was frightened that he would arrive too late, lose his chance to get Lawton. He was exhausted, from running hundreds of feet straight up. He felt the pain in his shoulder, but he felt the shock through his entire body. 

_Curare_

From the rate of fire he'd been hearing, the battle hadn't involved long-range sniper rifles. But John was willing to bet that Lawton poisoned his semi-automatic pistol ammo also. Which meant even a shoulder wound could be fatal. John needed a hospital, quickly, and he wasn't going to get there on his own.

John could see the Hood, taking cover behind a concrete pillar. _That's a smart idea. I shoulda done that._ He watched as the Hood walked over to verify that Lawton was down for the count. John tried to ask for help, tried to explain about the poison, but all that came out was a groan. 

It was enough; the Hood turned, saw him, ran over to catch John as he lost his balance and stumbled. As he passed out, John prayed that the Hood had the intel on the curare, and would know to pass it on to the EMTs.


	16. Discovery

Amazingly, he could remember bits and pieces. Being loaded into the back of a limo, laid out across the back seat, before he passed out again.

Walking down metal stairs, like in a warehouse. Being laid on a metal table. _Cold.._

Being propped up, a cup to his lips. Drinking, coughing, pain in his chest as well as his shoulder. 

John had been a soldier. If he'd lost consciousness in an adrenaline rush, he would regain the adrenaline when he awoke. Observe. Orient. Blood drying on his chest meant he hadn't been cleaned up; still drying meant he hadn't been out for all that long. The scent of alcohol mixed with blood meant he'd probably been sterilized, which probably meant surgery, which probably meant the bullet had been removed. The fact that he'd woken up at all meant a curare antidote had been administered. 

The table was cold and metal, which matched his recollection. If that was true, probably the stairs were true also. _The vigilante has a limo?_ The ceiling looked like a warehouse. 

He rolled to his left, to get a wider view, and push himself up. He struggled to focus on the humanoid shape in front of what were probably computer monitors. Green body; probably the vigilante. By reflex, John checked the hands; empty and by the figure's side, so low threat level. After a few more seconds, John could focus well enough to make out the face...

"Hey." It was the voice, as much as the now-mostly-focused face, that finally clicked in John's mind.

"...Oliver?" John stared, questioning his senses, wondering if the curare was still scrambling his brain. Or perhaps he hadn't actually awakened at all; this was a fever dream, with his mind combining the two things that were at the top of his thoughts ...

... except the figure -- the vigilante -- Oliver -- was nodding his head. And now connections began clicking. The combat skills, and the attempts to hide them. The pickpocketing. The refusal to work at Queen Consolidated. The offhand comment at the auction about Lawton being out of time. Oliver had run up the stairs of the Exchange Building; John was sure of that -- but there had been no one on the roof when John arrived. Oliver had disappeared, and the Arrow had appeared, fighting Floyd Lawton.

All the way back to the very beginning. That very first day. He hadn't rabbited to escape a bodyguard; he'd ditched John to go out and ...

"You're that vigilante!"

Oliver made some motion that might have been a nod, or maybe hanging his head in shame, or perhaps a sort of apologetic head-duck. John couldn't focus well enough to tell -- with either his eyes or his brain. _You fight to protect this country, under the directive of legal authorities, or you don't fight at all.._ John took a swing.

Oliver ducked, and John stumbled past him, nearly landing sprawled across the computer desk.

"Take it easy, Digg. You were poisoned."

Curare. Lawton. All this time, struggling to keep his combat instincts under control, while Oliver had been ... "Son of a bitch!" John had gotten himself turned around, swung again. This time Oliver caught him, steadied him, and then pushed him towards the table. John braced himself against the tabletop, trying to find his balance; finally managed to get himself seated as Oliver spoke again. 

"I could have taken you anywhere. Could have taken you home. I brought you here."

John stared at him in pain and shock. "You really did lose your mind on that island."

Oliver gave a slight shrug that might have been acknowledgement, but certainly indicated apathy. "Found a couple things along the way."

"Like what, archery classes?!"

"Clarity." Oliver paused. "Starling City .... is dying. It is being poisoned, by a criminal elite who don't care who they hurt, as long as they maintain their wealth and power."

 _So what?_ "What are you gonna do? Take 'em all down by your lonesome?" _The white knight, swooping in to save the disenfranchised..._

"No." Oliver shook his head. "No, I want you to join me." John rolled his eyes. "Special forces out of Kandahar; it's perfect!" When John didn't respond, Oliver continued. "You're a fellow soldier." 

That was more than John could take. He rose to his feet as steadily as he could, to get right in the vigilante's face. "Oliver, you're not a soldier. You're a criminal." John began to walk away, but turned back to add "And a murderer." Holding his injured arm, John began a long, painful walk to the stairs ten feet away. 

To his relief, Oliver didn't try to follow. John had barely enough energy to pull himself up the stairs, and didn't have any to spare for fending off either offers of assistance or further requests to join this insanity. 

He stumbled out the fire door; found himself in the Queen Foundry. Familiar territory. Out the front door. Across the yard. The gate, thank God, stood open. The Queen limo was outside. _Of course the vigilante has a limo..._

His keys were still in his pocket. The limo was the only vehicle around, and John was in no shape to walk home. _Fuck it._ It was unlikely Oliver would complain, under the circumstances.


	17. Virtue

Whatever curare antidote Oliver had, it was good enough to allow John to sleep. He awoke in his own bed -- exhausted, in pain, but functional. The clock showed 4:58 AM -- two minutes before his alarm would have gone off. _Oh come on. If anyone's entitled to sleep in it's me, right now._

But there was no chance of going back to sleep. Not with the pain in his shoulder and the revelations in his mind. John got up, started digging through his linen closet to see if he still had an arm sling.

Oliver usually didn't get up until around 10 AM -- sometimes 9, sometimes 11. It gave John plenty of time to decide what to do. 

Quit, obviously. That was a given. He couldn't ... couldn't stand to be around Oliver while knowing what he was doing, every time he left. And "Bodyguard to the Starling City Vigilante" was as useless a position as the vigilante was offensive. 

John had served in Afghanistan. He had buddies who'd been present at the start of the Syrian civil war. He kept in touch with the world media -- he'd followed the Ukraine riots, the Hong Kong protests. 

It had given him, slowly, over time, an incredible amount of respect for his homeland. Horrific as gang wars were, they had nothing on the real thing. There were Syrian cities where "post-apocalyptic" wasn't an exaggeration. Bad as the Glades were, at least the vast majority of people made it home safely each night. 

And the crucial element, the thing that made the difference, was rule of law. Yes, it meant that sometimes bad guys got away. Yes, it meant that sometimes good guys were punished. But the moment people started ignoring that, it gave others permission to do the same. And it didn't matter if your motives were good -- others would join in, and some of them would have motives that were not so good. And if you start making rules about who can and cannot ignore the rules, you're on your way to castes, to serf feudalism, chattel slavery. 

No, it meant that things sucked sometimes. But the alternatives suck more. And John would not contribute to making his home into a war zone. 

So his decision ought to have been easy. Those who ignore rule of law are a danger to the safety and health of his home. John knew who the Starling City Vigilante was. With this information, and his testimony, they could stop him killing anyone else. 

He ought to go now, before Oliver killed again. He ought to have left the moment he got up. He ought to be at the police precinct right now. 

But here he was, dressed, his arm in a sling, with a cup of coffee, staring at his dining room table. Not moving. 

The correct course of action was clear. And John Diggle was not an indecisive man. But he wasn't making a single move to act on what he knew to be right. 

_Why?_


	18. Duty

6:30 AM. Two and a half hours before report time. John had gone for a run. It wasn't necessarily the best idea after having been shot and poisoned, but he needed to clear his head, and exercise was the most reliable way to do that. 

His usual 5-mile run had taken him 45 minutes, and he was exhausted and in pain when he finished, but at least he didn't feel like he had a thousand thoughts pulling in a thousand different directions inside his mind. 

He showered, and discovered that he'd pulled out one of his stitches during the run. Which was also the moment when he realized -- consciously anyway -- that Oliver had stitched him up. And quite professionally, John recognized, having experienced a wide range of competence in his medical care. 

_Fuck._ The water ran over him, wetting the sutures. John shifted to keep his shoulder out of the spray. 

Oliver had taken him to his ... hideout. Lair. Bat-cave. _Hood-cave?_. Had administered some kind of antidote. Had stitched him up. 

They'd fought together, he and Oliver. They'd laughed together. Shared -- in quiet, roundabout stories -- some of their pain and grief from their individual wars. 

He'd spent weeks trying to get Oliver to open up to him. He'd put up with inordinate amounts of shit, trying to convince Oliver that this time, this friend was not going to abandon him. 

_So what's it going to be, Johnny? Do you betray your principles? Or your friend?_

John turned off the water, leaned against the tile wall. 

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._


	19. Normative

7:00 AM  
_Your principles or your friend?_

_Hell, Oliver's tough. He can take it._

Except John knew better than anyone -- possibly better than Oliver himself -- how false that was. Oliver Queen was fragile as hell. If he went to prison -- and with several murders on his plate, prison was a best-case scenario -- he would never recover. 

_That's what you get for breaking the law, dammit! It's not_ supposed _to be pleasant._

Except...John knew, as any resident of the Glades did, that the justice system broke people who didn't deserve it. You do something wrong, you get punished, sure, but the emotional and psychological trauma usually far exceeded the punishment warranted.

_Hell, this isn't a black 15-year-old with 5mg of weed in his pocket. This is Oliver fucking Queen. He'll have the best lawyers in the country._

In fact, prison might not be a given for a rich, handsome white dude. It could get plea-bargained down to community service. Juries would buy an insanity defense. Hell, it wouldn't even be a lie -- any competent psychologist would diagnose PTSD in a heartbeat. 

_If they can see it. If they can get Oliver to talk. If..._

More likely Oliver would clam up. Almost certain, actually, given what John knew about him. He never fought an accusation - never. No matter how unjust the accusation might be. From Thea, from Moira, from Laurel -- he believed that he deserved their abuse and their scorn, and he accepted their punishment without complaint, no matter how much it hurt him. He would do the same here. 

_But in this case he actually does deserve it!_

But did he? Insanity was an allowable defense for a reason. Can guilt properly be assigned in cases where the perp is barely in control of himself?

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._


	20. Maximize Future Options

7:30 AM

John had seized on the one certainty that had not wavered in all of his doubt: he was _not_ going to work as Oliver Queen's bodyguard. Therefore, he needed to resign. _Also, I need to return the limo._

So he finished his coffee, and drove to the Queen mansion. He returned the limo to the motor pool. He met the valet/mechanic's questioning look with an expression entirely devoid of emotion. He requested an audience with Moira Queen. 

By this time, he'd managed to decide what to say. He could always turn in Oliver later. But he couldn't un-turn-in Oliver, if he changed his mind. So for now, he would keep Oliver's secret, and maintain the control. 

Moira didn't seem terribly surprised. John supposed she must be quite used to having people refuse to work with Oliver. _Friend or not, the boy's a pain in the ass._

"May I ask why?" Moira controlled her expression as well as John did -- her eyebrow arched to convey interest, but her tone was level and betrayed none of the aggravation she must be feeling. 

"I..." John chose his words with care. It was likely they would be transmitted to Oliver, and he wanted to send a message that Moira wouldn't notice. "I don't approve of the way he spends his evenings, ma'am. Particularly since step one is always to ditch the bodyguard." John stood at-ease, and waited patiently. 

"I see." Moira leaned forward and set down her coffee. "Well I appreciate your honesty, and I certainly don't wish to ask you to compromise your principles. I'll have your final paycheck sent to the same account?"

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am."

"Feel free to contact me for any references you may need in the future." Moira's tone dismissed him, and John took his leave. 

_Now what?_

_..._

_Fuck._


	21. Wound Management

Dealing with his sutures distracted him for a few hours. If he went to the hospital, he'd have to answer a lot of questions he didn't want to face right now; there would be no possible way of maintaining control of the situation if he had to explain how he came by a gunshot wound that had already been stitched. John, after some consideration, contacted a friend who had been an army medic, and now ran a private practice downtown. 

"What the hell'd you do...?"

Levenson broke off at the look on John's face. After a moment, he turned to his cabinet and started digging out supplies. When he turned back, he had both voice and face under control.

"Thought you'd had enough of getting shot at, Digg."

John breathed a covert sigh of relief, and kept his tone light. "Oh, you know me, Levy. Can't never have enough of getting shot at."

Levenson snorted, then bent over John's shoulder again. "Who you guardin'?"

"Queen." One great advantage in talking to vets was that they never minded if he didn't use complete sentences. 

"Mmm." Levenson nodded, but refrained from further comment until he removed the needle from his mouth. "Heard about that."

John closed his eyes and breathed deeply as Levy applied antiseptic. _So glad I was passed out for this part last time._ "I don't have a high a grade of anesthetic as I'd like for this." Levenson apologized. "You'd do better at a hospital, but I assume there's a reason you're contacting me instead."

John nodded, his eyes still closed, focused on holding still despite the pain. Levenson worked quickly, and it wasn't all that long before John was bandaged and dressed once again. 

Levenson waited until Digg's breathing was back under control before he asked cautiously "You wanna talk about it?"

John gave it consideration. _If you don't trust your medic, don't let 'im cut on you._ But trusting someone's skill was different from trusting them with your secrets. Much less with someone else's secrets. And besides..."Really isn't the kinda thing that can be talked about."

Levy twisted his mouth wryly in understanding, and clasped John's forearm. "Well... take care." 

John thought about all the meaning contained in that simple sentence. "Thanks, man. You too."


	22. Confrontation

By noon the next day, he was tired of staring at the wall of his apartment.

Exercise was out of the question. Levy had been very firm on the point that John was not to do anything else to endanger his healing for at least 48 hours.

But he needed a change of scenery. Maybe a new view would allow him to think some new thoughts, instead of the same ones going around and around in his head.

So he ended up at Big Belly Burger, trying to walk a fine line between telling Carly so little that she started to worry, and telling Carly enough to worry her. Mostly he munched on fries and stared at the wall of the restaurant.

"So when are you gonna tell me?"

"Mm?" John looked up to realize that it had turned full dark outside, and Carly had brought over his .. third? burger of the day. _Well, you need protein to repair damaged tissue._ He stalled by fussing with his toppings.

Carly's tone indicated she was running out of patience for John's avoiding the topic. "About what happened to your arm." 

John looked down at his sling and spoke -- he hoped -- nonchalantly. "Oh. It's my shoulder and it's ..." he looked up to meet Carly's eyes, then away "it's fine."

Carly did not look convinced. "I knew that Queen guy was trouble."

High on the list of things John did not want to discuss with her was Oliver Queen. But he also couldn't let her go on believing that Oliver was the cause of his injury. Not when it was his own obsession with Lawton that had nearly killed him, and -- much as he hated to admit it -- Oliver was the only reason he'd survived. "Hey, I never said this happened protecting Queen."

"Oh yeah? Then what's he doing here?"

John frowned and turned to follow her gaze. _Sonofabitch_.

John turned around and tried to compose himself while Oliver's new bodyguard declared the area secure. "Thank you very much, Rob." Under other circumstances, John would have laughed at the sarcasm in Oliver's voice, disguised as friendliness. But right now, he was too focused on controlling the surge of adrenaline that had shot through his body as soon as he saw Oliver's face. _Dammit, Queen, go away. Don't do this to me. I've left you alone; why can't you return the favor?_

"Hello, Diggle's sister-in-law Carly! I'm Oliver Queen."

Carly reclaimed her hand and crossed her arms, unimpressed. "I know who you are."

"No, you really don't." The words were out before John realized he'd spoken. _Dammit, Diggle, control!_ John hadn't been so close to decking someone since Oliver had choked him in the convention center, and in that case he'd had the nausea and headache to prevent any hasty action. John took a deep breath and willed himself to stillness. _Don't react. Whatever happens. Just. Don't. React._

Carly walked away; Oliver sat down. "Hello." 

John took a drink of water; set down his cup. _Just don't react._

Oliver folded his hands, and looked at the table. "I couldn't help but notice a distinct lack of police cars when got home, I knew you wouldn't drop a dime on me." He met John's eyes with a look of smug self-satisfaction.

 _Bitch, that option's still on the table._ John kept himself sitting firmly in the booth; kept his hand from curling into a fist. 

"So, have you considered my offer?"

Again the words were out before John knew what was happening. "Offer?" He snorted. "That's one hell of a way to put it."

Oliver looked back down at his hands. "It _is_ an offer. It's a chance to do the kind of good that compelled you to join the military."

 _And what would you know of that? You know nothing about the impossible choices..._ "Please. You were born with a platinum spoon in your mouth, Queen." John leaned forward. "What, you spend 5 years on a island with no room service and suddenly you found religion?" John sat back and looked away, determined not to get into an argument with Oliver. He'd watched that play out a dozen times, and it never ended well for Moira. 

Oliver slapped a small brown book down on the table. "This was my father's." John glared at him, tried to open it, fumbled with only one hand. When he finally got it in a position to read, Oliver snatched it back, slapped it closed. "I found it when I buried him."

 _That doesn't add up..._ If Oliver had buried his father, then it hadn't been just a matter of losing contact in the water, as Oliver had led everyone to believe. There was a good chance Oliver had actually watched his father die... "I thought you said your father died when the boat went down."

Oliver was looking across Big Belly, but John was pretty sure it wasn't tables and chairs he was seeing. "We both made it to a life raft, but there wasn't enough food & water for both of us, so he shot himself in the head." Oliver said it calmly, matter-of-factly, and looked up to meet John's eyes at the end. John sat back and took a deep breath, trying to imagine how much pain that must have caused Oliver to watch. _No wonder the kid's fucked up._ Oliver continued in the same quiet, level tone. "And as much as he was doing to give me a chance to survive, I believe it was also atoning for his sins." 

Non-reaction came easily now. Somewhere along the line, John realized, he'd switched from being an angry ex-employee to being a friend, supporting his brother-in-arms at a time of need. _Fuck..._ But ... Oliver was a brother in arms... and he did need support. _I'm gonna regret this..._

"I need to right the wrongs done by my family, and I'm offering you a chance to right the wrongs done to yours." 

_How did my family get into this?_ "Oliver, what are you talking about?"

Oliver looked down. "The police never caught your brother's shooter..." He looked up again.

 _No. We are_ not _going down this road again. You don't go there, not now._ "Hey! You leave Andy out of this." It was the same tone John had used when Levy'd asked why he wasn't getting stitched up at the ER, and on any other veteran, it would have worked. There were some lines you didn't cross, and soldiers learned to recognize when they were pushing those limits. But Oliver hadn't fought alongside anyone; he hadn't learned how to build trust in a unit. 

"The bullets were laced with curare; that is Floyd Lawton's MO; he is the sniper.." Oliver looked away and swallowed, as if confessing some terrible secret "...that I stopped."

"Are you trying to tell me that you took down Andy's killer?" But of course he had. John should have connected it before. He was kicking himself now. He knew Lawton was in that construction zone. That had to have been who the vigilante was fighting. Just before he passed out, John remembered the Hood had gone to verify his opponent was down. That had to have been Lawton...

"No. I'm ..." Oliver looked incredibly uncomfortable, as if his point wasn't getting across and he didn't know how to express himself. "I'm giving you the chance... A chance to help other people's families. Do you remember when the people in this city helped each other? They can't do that anymore, because of a group of people --" Oliver paused, and nodded, as if acknowledging a point John hadn't raised out loud "-- people like my father. They see nothing wrong with raising themselves up by stepping on other people's throats." Oliver seemed almost to be talking to himself, now. "It does need to stop. And if it's not going to be the courts, and it's not going to be the cops, then it's gonna be me." 

John stared at him, too startled to formulate any kind of response, as Oliver took a deep breath and sat back. Like John, he seemed to have forgotten they were in a burger joint, nearing closing time, with other people not two tables away. But he came back to look John in the eye. "And -- I hope -- you." Then he stood up and walked away. 

John was still trying to process all of that as Oliver stopped the new bodyguard with a raised finger and an "I gotta go to the washroom, Rob." Oliver turned and walked away, while Rob stood awkwardly at the end of the table. 

John took a deep breath, and brought himself back to the here and now. He looked around, looked Rob up and down. Rob avoided eye contact, then looked back and offered an uncomfortable smile. John couldn't help laughing, just a bit, inside. "Oh that boy's long gone, man." Rob's eyes widened in realization. "Whoo." John gestured with his hand, and wiped his forehead as Rob took off at a sudden sprint.

 _I can't handle anything more tonight._ John left two fifties on the table and snuck out before Carly could spot him.


	23. Contemplation

Well, he had succeeded in getting new thoughts. It wasn't the way he would have preferred to do it, but he had to admit: after the conversation with Oliver, he had a whole _different_ set of thoughts running around and around in his head. 

He'd hoped to go to bed, but he'd gotten up after an hour of staring at the darkened ceiling. Sleep was not going to happen any time soon. 

**_They see nothing wrong with raising themselves up by stepping on other people's throats._**

What he really wanted to do was just forget the whole thing. Declare Oliver crazy, and therefore the whole conversation could be ignored. And Oliver was crazy, there was no doubt about that. "Messed up in the head" didn't begin to cover what he had a right to be, after watching his father commit suicide. 

**_They see nothing wrong with raising themselves up by stepping on other people's throats._**

This was the sticking point. After hours of sitting in the darkness, after hundreds of sit-ups -- _Sorry, Levy_ \-- this was the one thing that simply couldn't be brushed aside. Hadn't he said the same thing? Hadn't he complained about the wealthy playboys, treating the city as their own personal playground? **_You were born with a platinum spoon in your mouth, Queen._**

 ** _Do you remember when the people of this city helped each other? They can't do that now._** It was true, John realized: they literally couldn't. God knows he'd tried. There just wasn't enough money in the Glades. If only one family was struggling, others could help them out until they got back on their feet. But when a factory closed, and hundreds of people lost their jobs at the same time... 

It sure made the wealthy richer, though. It was part of what he hated about his post-army life -- to dedicate his life to protecting very people who were ruining his home... But what choice did he have? Controlled, precise violence was the only skill he had to sell. It was better than Afghanistan. _... right?_

And anyway, what right did Oliver Queen have to complain about those things? It wasn't affecting him. It was his own people who were causing the problems.

Except... Oliver acknowledged that. _**Because of a group of people... people like my father.**_ John groaned, and leaned back, and finally faced squarely the painful thought he'd been avoiding all night. 

This was not a passing fancy of an idle rich playboy. This was not a way to entertain himself and score prestige points with Tommy. Oliver might be misguided; he might be wrong. He might be dangerously unhinged. But this was not a game. He was deathly serious about trying to help the city, the best way he knew how.

John growled, and went back to bed.


	24. Fruit of the Poisonous Tree

_Man, I'm sick of Oliver Queen. To hell with this whole problem._ John finished his breakfast and wrenched his thoughts into a different channel. _It is time and past time I found another job._

Actually his final paycheck from the Queen job had come through with a substantial, unasked-for, termination bonus; he could probably afford not to work for a month or so. But a contractor's life was uncertain, and it was best not to wait til the last minute to go searching for work. 

So he tried all his usual stuff. He browsed through his inbox and found a couple of promising inquiries. He trawled Craigslist. He made a list of contacts he should reach out to.

And then...he didn't. He made more coffee. He checked email again. He browsed Facebook. 

_You're stalling, Diggle._ And he was. He could feel it, the resistance, like the onset of a stomach bug. _What? Are you hoping it'll get better? The job will be more appealing after three hours of delay?_

The sarcasm had no effect on his inner state. Try as he might, he couldn't stomach the idea of lining up another bodyguard job. 

\--------

_Well hell. Carly's been bugging me to get out of personal security. Maybe I should find something else._

_Like what?_ He wasn't exactly spoiled for options. _Fighting's all I know how to do._

That wasn't true; it had never been true. He learned quickly, and he had the confidence and initiative to run a successful security practice for 4 years. He had contacts. He could find work in all sorts of places. But a desk job was even worse than bodyguarding. At least now he could _pretend_ he was fighting the bad guys. He occasionally had a chance to stick it to creeps like Lawton. If he died, it would be fighting for rule of law.

 ** _I need to right the wrongs done by my family, and I'm offering you a chance to right the wrongs done to yours._**

John shook his head forcefully, to clear it of the unwanted thought. _I am_ NOT _joining Oliver Queen's suicidal one-man crusade._

Police work, maybe? Surely they could use someone with his skill set. And he'd have a chance to fight on the right side, stop bad guys.

For about an hour, he believed that might work. He'd even started researching how to apply to the police academy before it hit him what he'd actually be doing, on the force. A brand-new cop? He'd be walking a beat in the Glades. Taking in teenagers and ruining their lives over 5mg of marijuana. 

_There are real criminals in there, you know. You saying the crime bosses, the drug lords, don't deserve what they get?_

_..._

_..._

\----

John paced around his apartment, slapping furniture with his free hand. 

Of course the drug lords, the weapons smugglers.. of course they needed to be stopped. But that's not what the police did, was it? The real problems, the bosses, they were never out on the streets, peddling. They never did the actual arms running. Police caught their minions, put them away, but the bosses simply recruited more. _They_ had a wealth of options, as more and more people became too desperate for work to inquire too closely about the nature of that work. Foundry shuts down; hundreds of people -- with strong backs and a willingness to do dangerous work to feed their families -- enter the job market. Crime bosses are never touched; children go hungry anyway, when their father is arrested. 

If the problem was going to be solved, it would have to be attacked at the root. Which was ... 

... which was...

 _Dammit, Jim, I'm a soldier, not a sociologist._ The weak joke did little to improve his mood. 

John sat down on the couch and stared out the window. _**The police never caught your brother's shooter.**_ Of course they hadn't. Lawton was a high-profile assassin. Just to meet with him cost tens of thousands of dollars; an actual assassination, millions. Whoever had been gunning for Andy's protectee, they were wealthy as hell. 

For that matter...

John fired up his laptop and read the stories on Martin Somers, to check his memory. _Yes..._ Along with the murder charge, Somers had confessed to accepting millions of dollars in bribes from the Chinese Triad -- one of the biggest arms smugglers in Starling -- to allow them access through his shipping docks. With that avenue shut down, the entire arms running industry would be shut down for months. 

And yes, they would find someone else to accept bribes. But when that happened, the vigilante could shut that down as well. It was a solution that made a serious, large-scale impact....

_Unless I turn him in._

John frowned and shut his laptop. 


	25. Founded Upon a Rock

He'd finished his burger, and was nursing his third cup of coffee when Carly came over on her break. "Enough moping," she said by way of opening the conversation.

"Mm" He'd been saying that to her a lot lately, he realized. It was his way of acknowledging the accuracy of her statement without actually joining the conversation 

"You quit." She sat down that the other chair across from him. "It's done. My advice would be to move on."

"Ah." John smiled at the idea. If he could just get the problem to leave him the hell alone... "If it were only that easy."

"Except it _is_." Carly looked at him earnestly, perhaps sensing, in his uncertainty, an opportunity to convince him in their years-long argument. "Personal security is dangerous. Your nephew already lost his father. He can't lose his uncle too."

John thought about it. He needed to discuss it with _someone_... someone he could trust. Carly would happily talk to him about a career change. And he respected Carly, and would trust her judgement. He'd just have to be careful in how he spoke.

"Does it ever bother you they never caught the guy who killed Andy?" Carly looked at him questioningly. John couldn't explain how it all fit together in his head, but he trusted Carly to listen compassionately even if she couldn't follow all the twists and turns of the logic.

"You know when I was in Afghanistan I had a job, and I did it." He missed that kind of clarity, even if he'd sometimes had doubts about the righteousness of his orders. "And when I could, I would help out the people there so that in some small way, when I left, I could believe I left it a better place." John paused, trying to put it into words what he was feeling. "But ever since I've been home, all I do is protect punks, and spoiled onepercenters."

"Mm." Carly made a small noise of understanding, without interrupting. 

"I miss feeling like I'm makin' a difference in the world." That's what it came down to, he realized. That's what was turning his stomach about finding another job. The Queen job hadn't been about personal security for weeks. He'd been watching Oliver slowly open, start -- not to heal, really, but to start -- to find the places within himself that needed healing, and figure out how to live with them until they could heal. He'd been making a difference in someone's life.

Carly spoke quickly, almost angrily, in her intensity. "Then get out of personal security and go do something _you_ believe in."

 _But what do I believe in?_ John wasn't sure, any more. It seemed the only problems he cared about were the only problems he couldn't possibly solve. "And what if it's wrong?" 

Carly smiled as if she found the idea humorous. "John, if you believe in something, how can it be wrong?"

John had to look away from the confidence in her eyes.


	26. Built Upon the Sand

Back home, John paced his living room again. Carly might have complete faith in his ability to inerringly choose the right path, but he knew how seldom that was actually true. 

He thought of his fights with Andy, when the only way he'd known how to show affection was to be over-protective. He thought about all the nights in lock-up, after he'd been unable to control his temper. 

He thought about the days when he'd been too angry with Oliver to speak to him, leaving Oliver with no one at all to rely on. 

He thought about what Oliver must be going through now, completely isolated.

 _No, Carly._ John sighed. _Whatever it looks like from your perspective, I'm anything but rock-solid_.

John sat down and braced his elbows on his knees, holding his forehead. 

**_...there wasn't enough food & water for both of us, so he shot himself in the head..._**

**_Your principles or your friend?_**

**_It does need to stop._**

_**John, if you believe in it, how can it be wrong?**_

_Because it's not the way, dammit!_ Yes, Oliver Queen was -- against all odds -- his friend. Yes, there were real problems that needed to be dealt with. Yes, the vigilante was helping -- perhaps even solving -- some of those problems. 

_But it doesn't matter how well-intentioned you start off. It always ends in the same place._

John shook his head, and sat in his silent apartment, thinking of Afghan warlords and Syrian rebels; of slumlords, and smugglers, and the Starling City Vigilante.


	27. Decide

John awoke strangely content. For the first time in days, he didn't feel the stomach-churning uncertainty he'd grown accustomed to since he regained consciousness in the basement of the Queen Foundry. Instead he felt at peace with himself, having made a decision he felt comfortable with. 

_I wonder what the hell it is?_

John knew from experience that there was no point trying to push it. He was used to having his subconscious make decisions for him, and he'd learned to trust his gut. The answer would come when he needed it. In the meantime, he enjoyed the sensation of no longer being at war with himself, while he ate his breakfast and listened to the news.

"At least five federal, state, and local agencies are seeking millions of dollars in fines and environmental cleanup costs from Brodeur Chemical. New facts have come to light that Brodeur Chemical employee Camille Declan had discovered that Brodeur was illegally disposing of waste..."

_See, that's how it should go. Gather evidence; arrest the bad guys. Fair trial, and then millions of dollars in fines. Legal, safe, and no one gets butcher knives thrown at them._

...

Butcher knives...

If anyone in this city was doing it right, it was Laurel Lance, and the CNRI. They'd gone after Martin Somers the right way: with depositions and lawsuits.

And in return, Laurel had been nearly killed in her own apartment; would have been killed, if Oliver hadn't chosen that night to find someone to talk to. 

Oliver wasn't the one who made it physical. He hadn't started this war. Rule of law? Not when Adam Hunt could buy judges; Somers could kill attorneys rather than face legal action. Not when people could hire Floyd Lawton and come nowhere close to being arrested; when Peter Declan could be framed for his wife's murder. John could feel his blood start to boil. 

_Rule of law? I'll give you rule of law._

John paused as he realized he was at the front door, reaching for his keys. _What are you doing, Diggle?_

But the answer was obvious. He almost couldn't believe he'd missed it, before. _I'm going to work. This shit needs to stop._

_And if it's not going to be the cops, and it's not going to be the courts, then it's gonna be me._


	28. Commitment

In a different state of mind, John Diggle might have been nervous pulling up to the Queen mansion after trying to punch out his employer. As it had so many times before, his anger -- this time with Oliver's opponents -- made it easy to ignore slight inconveniences like that. 

It was Walter who answered the door. He didn't control his expression as well as Moira or Oliver did: he was very clearly surprised to see John, although he was unfalteringly gracious. "Ah, good morning, Mr. Diggle! How can I help you?"

John didn't hesitate. "I'm here to speak with Oliver. Is he in?"

"I don't believe he is at the moment, but I can have someone ring him if you'd like." Walter stood back to admit John into the foyer. 

"That would be great, thanks." John stepped in and -- he couldn't help it, it would always be part of him -- made a security sweep of the entrance hall. Fortunately, very few clients noticed his habitual scanning, and even fewer took exception to it in someone they'd hired on as a bodyguard. 

"Certainly. If you'd care to wait in the parlor, I'll have Ms. Nilsson make a call." Walter gave him a polite smile as he waved John towards the beige couches. 

\---

He was looking out the window when he heard the front door open and close, and heard Oliver's footstep in the hall. Oliver walked in slowly, as if surprised to see Digg. _Did Walter not tell him who was here? Or did he just not believe it?_

"You here for the bodyguard position? Cuz... the new guy just quit." 

John suppressed a laugh. _That's 'cuz you're a prick, Queen._

"No I'm not." John turned, still smiling. "I'm here about the other position." 

Oliver froze, and then swallowed. John could see he was afraid to hope... he couldn't even bring himself to speak, just opened his hand to say _go ahead_.

"Just to be clear, I'm not signing on to be a sidekick. But you're right." John took a breath. "Fighting for this city needs to be done, and you're gonna do this with or without me."

"Yeah." Oliver swallowed again, his voice barely a whisper. His gaze was on the floor, like a child being chastised, although John had never seen him look half so penitent when someone was actually angry with him. 

"But with me, there'll be fewer casualties, including you." 

Oliver finally looked up; he met John's eyes, with a sad deadened look that showed John just how hard these last few days had been on him. "Diggle, I'm not looking for anybody to save me." 

_I know, kid. You never have been. But..._ "Maybe not. But you need someone just the same." Oliver said nothing, but his gaze focused, and he actually looked at John for the first time since he walked in. 

John tried to think how to explain. Explain in a way that would make sense to Oliver's trauma-battered heart. "You are fighting a war, Queen. Except you have no idea what war does to you. How it scrapes off little pieces of your soul." It was odd, John thought, how the ones whose soul was most damaged were the ones who had the least idea of how much they'd been injured. 

"And you need someone to remind you of who you are." _Who you really are._ "Not this thing you're becoming." 

John stretched out his hand. Oliver stared at it for a moment before he reached out to accept the handshake. 

Seconds later the front door was flung open and a voice boomed out: "Oliver Queen!" 

John and Oliver looked at each other, startled, then moved towards the foyer. Their slight hesitation meant that Walter beat them to the entryway. "What is this? You can't just barge in here!" 

Detective Lance was, to John's eye, in Condition Red, ready for a fight at a moment's notice. "Yeah? Well I got a badge and a gun say different." 

Oliver charged in despite John's aborted attempts to hold him. "What the hell's going on?"

Now Thea had appeared on the stairs. "Oliver!" 

John stepped forward, ready to intervene if necessary. But Lance was entirely focused on the charges he was shouting in Oliver's face. "Oliver Queen you're under arrest on suspicion of obstruction of justice, aggravated assault..." 

Thea cried out desperately, "Walter, stop them!" 

"...Trespassing, acting as a vigilante...

"Are you out of your mind?" Oliver yelled.

"... and murder." Then Oliver and the police were gone, and John was left in the anteroom with three people to whom he dared not reveal the accuracy of Lance's accusations. 

_...Fuck_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Without suggesting that this will be common, I ended up writing some of this episode from Oliver's POV also. <http://archiveofourown.org/works/7266076>


	29. Follow-through

"Hello?"

The voice at the other end of the line was hesitant, under the forced cheerfulness. "Good morning, Diggle. It's .. Oliver. Can you come over?"

After more than 48 hours of trying to figure out how the hell to proceed, John couldn't quite keep the exasperated note out of his voice. "Of course, Mister Queen. At the foundry, or in prison?"

"I'm under house arrest. It's complicated," a pause, "And please call me Oliver."

John took a deep breath, and nodded. "I'll be right over, Oliver."

\---

This time it was Thea who answered the door. "Good afternoon, Mister Diggle." She gave him a small smile. 

Like Oliver, like Moira, Thea was reserved in her facial expressions. But she'd learned from watching Oliver as much as she had from her mother, and John was getting quite good at reading Oliver. On Thea's face he read worry, fear, and an introspective reassessing of her worldview. _Boy, can I relate to that._ He tried to make his answering smile as sympathetic as possible. "Good morning, Miss Queen. Your brother asked me to come over."

Thea stood back to admit him, but her forehead wrinkled. "Didn't you quit?" 

_Damn intelligent younger siblings anyway._ "I uh..." John tried to think of something plausible as Thea walked him to the parlor. _How does Oliver stand this? Keeping secrets from your family?_ Actually John did have experience with that -- Lyla and Carly both understood when classified information couldn't be shared. You simply shared what you were feeling, without going into the details of what caused it. Maybe a similar model would work here. "Your brother... made me very angry." Thea snorted softly, and rolled her eyes sympathetically. "And I said some things I shouldn't have, and stormed out. When I came over a couple days ago, he was kind enough to accept my apology. So I'm back on the job."

Thea nodded thoughtfully, and summoned a servant to go fetch Oliver. But then she turned back to John. "Why does he need you today, though? He can't leave the house." 

_Damn intelligent younger siblings._ John spread his hands. "I don't know," he said honestly. "He asked me to come over, so here I am." 

Thea frowned, and fell silent. John watched her sitting on the couch opposite him, apparently serene, except... her right hand was fidgety. She held it closed in a fist, moving her thumb from the inside to the outside and back again. 

"Mister Diggle..." she said, finally. "Do you think...?" She took a breath, and faced him squarely. "Do you think... Ollie might... might be capable of those things?"

Situations like this were the reason John always tried to stay expressionless. Then when he froze, it wouldn't be so noticeable. 

"I think..." John slowed, trying to figure out how to answer. He'd sworn loyalty to Oliver, so he couldn't say anything that would give away his secret. But Thea was clearly in anguish, for all that she tried to imitate her mother's facade of prideful disdain. He would say something to ease her pain, if he could... 

He couldn't answer her question. But he could answer the question _behind_ her question.

"I think," John continued finally, "that Oliver has been through hell, and he still hurts like hell. And sometimes that pain makes him do things that are hurtful, or seem crazy. But he's a good kid, and he cares very much, and when it comes right down to it, I think he'll always end up on the right side."

Thea's lips tightened, and she bowed her head. That was all the reaction she allowed herself, and she straightened instantly as they heard a footstep in the hall.

"Mister Oliver says to take Mister Diggle up," the servant said, reappearing in the doorway. 

"Thank you, Lisolette. I'll take him." Thea stood, and gestured for John to proceed her. 

They were up two flights of stairs and halfway down a hallway when Thea stopped, suddenly, and turned to face him. "Mister Diggle, will you... keep an eye on Ollie?" 

"That's my job, Miss Queen."

"Yes, but ..." Thea took a deep breath. "Ollie... I've seen him... he's more relaxed, when you're around. He trusts you. And he... you know.. he hurts like hell, like you said. He won't talk to anyone, not me, not mom, not Laurel, not Tommy. He needs to let someone in, and he ... " She broke off, and swallowed. Then she met John's eyes with a pleading look. "Will you... keep an eye on him?" 

John's heart melted, and he dropped the silent, non-judgemental bodyguard routine. "Thea." He held her gaze. "I am going to do everything I can to help Oliver recover. Whatever it takes. I may fail. But I will not desert him."

Thea let out a breath she'd been holding, and slumped against a wall. "Thank you," she whispered. Then she stood up and recovered her Moira imitation. "Ollie's room is just down here." 


	30. Teamwork

John knocked on the slightly-open door Thea had pointed him to. Oliver's voice came from inside. "Yah!"

John pushed the door open. Oliver was sitting behind a desk, looking at a laptop. "Thank you for coming. Shut the door."

A private conversation, then. Good; John was tired of watching every word he spoke. He closed the door and turned back to Oliver, straightening his cuffs. "Guess it was just a matter of time before the police caught up with you."

"Except they didn't." Oliver's words were quick, confident. _What the ...?_

"Oliver... they got you on video." _I know white wealth privilege is a thing, but it doesn't extend that far._

"I knew the security camera was there. Just like I knew the police would review the footage and arrest me. All part of the plan."

 _No battle plan survives contact with the enemy, boy. If you don't know that much, you're not half the veteran I thought you were. And anyway, so far this seems to be a pretty bad plan._ "So you wanted to get arrested?"

"Well I returned to Starling city and a few days later the vigilante appears. Sooner or later somebody was gonna make the connection."

 _That's true, but..._ "So what part of serving yourself up to the cops will help you avoid going to prison for the rest of your life?"

"There's more to it."

 _Oh, good, there's more to it. I'm glad you told me that, Oliver, I never would have guessed on my own._ John was sick of Oliver's smug little guessing game. "Well there'd better be for your sake, because your family is freakin' out downstairs."

Oliver gave a small nod, and his eyes dropped. _What, you didn't think of that?_ John could still see Thea's eyes, begging him to help her big brother. "Oliver, your mother and your sister just got you back. And now you're going to put 'em through a trial? Maybe even worse? Don't you care?"

"Of course I care," Oliver said quietly. "The mission comes first." He reached down and turned the laptop around.

John read the headline: **German Businessman Suspected of Arms Trade**. "Who is he?"

"Leo Mueller. German arms dealer. Suspected in the theft of 100 M249 Squad Automatic Weapons."

 _Strangely enough, I got the German arms dealer thing for myself. Brief me properly, dammit!_ "OK?!"

"Last night he arrived in Starling City to sell the guns."

 _You can't seriously be thinking of ..._ "Oliver, don't you imagine there's enough trouble you're in this week than to go after this guy?"

"I imagine what would happen if a street gang got their hands on military-grade hardware." _Yes, I understand, but.._ "I imagine our city's streets turned into a war zone."

 _But that's not the point. Strategic planning has to take into account capability, not just needs._ "But you're under house arrest, Oliver, which means you can't just go after this guy."

"Look...for now I would just like you to shadow Mueller. I would like you to track his movements.... I wanna know where the buy is happening."

John closed his eyes and clamped down on his temper. _Focus, Digg. The mission comes first. You can strangle information out of the kid later_. "OK. And how am I supposed to track him?"

Oliver sat back, a hint of a smile on his face. "Well you know us billionaire vigilantes. We do love our toys."


	31. Truth or Consequences

He and Oliver agreed that they'd meet again that evening. He hadn't told Oliver about Thea's worry for him -- that was for them to work out -- but he had reported Thea's curiosity about his presence at the mansion, and they'd agreed that John couldn't come over too often. The party was exactly the kind of gig for which John had provided security hundreds of times; his presence would cause no comment, and they could rendezvous at that point. 

With the passcode to the foundry basement, John had stopped by the ... _lair_ , he'd decided, _it's shorter than Vigilante HQ_. He had to admit, this job was a lot easier with access to GPS trackers and microminiaturized transcievers. He'd served in military units that weren't as well-equipped as Oliver's bat-cave. _Of course, there are military units that aren't as well-funded as this crusade either, so.._

After familiarizing himself with the tech, it was easy enough to plant the bug. Mueller, of course, had guards watching his car, to avoid someone planting a car bomb, but they were on the lookout for large bags of explosives. John "tripped" as he walked by, used the car bumper to lever himself up, and the tracker was stuck to the inside of the fender. Then he just had to apologize profusely to the guards until they shoved him angrily down the street.

Unfortunately, Oliver had the other half of the unit. So John had to wait until nightfall to learn what intel the tracker had gained them. He waited impatiently while Oliver addressed his guests. _It's necessary for the cover story,_ John reminded himself. Still, he couldn't resist a little dig as Oliver stepped off the platform. "You think this is what prison's like, you are in for a rude awakening." 

Oliver gave him a Look as they walked away, but didn't speak until they were in his suite with the door closed. Then he held out the tablet, with a blinking red dot on a city map. "Mueller's car's been parked in the warehouse district of the Glades for 45 minutes."

John studied the map, orienting himself and visualizing the area. "He has a good place for an arms deal." _Guy moves quick. Must've had the buyers lined up before he arrived._ "OK, since it's going down tonight, what do we do? Drop a dime on Mueller with the cops?"

"No." Oliver drew a breath. "The man in the hood. He's gonna stop them."

 _Didn't we go over that this morning?_ "Oliver you _can't_.. _leave_..the _house_."

Oliver swallowed, and avoided John's gaze. "It doesn't have to be me in the hood."

John rocked back as understanding finally clicked. "That's why you threw this ridiculous party." _So that..._ "So you have 100 witnesses placing you here at the house while I'm supposed to be across town dressed as a vigilante?" It actually was a pretty good plan. Of course it didn't have to be Oliver -- but anyone who saw a man in a green hood, stopping crime, would assume it was the same person. Just like John hadn't thought about the possibility of it being someone else. 

But if that had been his plan all along, then Oliver had shown his face to the security camera before he'd even approached John, he was that confident in his assessment. _**I knew you wouldn't drop a dime on me.**_ The boy's arrogance was maddening. 

_Hell, Johnny, you're the one who wanted the kid to trust you. I guess you succeeded a little too well._

Except Oliver hadn't trusted him. He'd lied. He'd evaded. Even now Oliver was spinning damage control instead of owning up to his scheming.

"I thought it was gonna good enough just for you to be seen in the hood. I didn't count on Mueller showing up and I didn't count on the possibility that the glades would be flooded with machine guns." 

_Oh really? Cuz you thought crime in Starling City would take a break while you were under arrest? I'm supposed to buy that?_ John tried to relax his muscles; tried to step away from the fury within him that was just looking for an excuse to burst free. 

"Look... I promise, it was never my intention to put you in harm's way."

 _Oh yeah, 'cuz_ that's _the thing I'm worried about here._ John tried to speak calmly. "Oliver, I didn't think joining your crusade was ever gonna be risk free. I just don't like being played." _And I won't work for a CO who pulls this shit._ "Now you might have gotten used to lying to everyone else in your life, but I'm the one guy _You Don't Lie To_." John broke off as his calm started to slip. He felt himself balanced on the edge of control, and was afraid of what might happen if he tried to smack some sense into Oliver.

Oliver, for his part, looked almost as if John _had_ struck him. His eyes moved in calculation and his lips parted. John prepared himself for another argument, but what Oliver said was, "You're right. I'm sorry."

John let out a shuddering breath. _All right. I can work with that._ It was too soon for him to forgive; his blood still ran too hot for him to discuss this rationally. But if Oliver could acknowledge a fault and apologize for it, then John could stand by him. Which meant he had a mission to complete, and -- he shouldered past Oliver, headed for the door -- a legitimate target on whom he could vent some of his anger.

Oliver spoke softly behind him. "So am I going to jail?"

John turned. Oliver stood straight, making no excuses or pleas. With a sudden flash of insight, John realized that this was how Oliver must have spent the last week: wondering whether his decision to trust had been his undoing. And even now, he didn't look frightened. Just tired, and determined. _He might not have trusted me with the plan_ , John realized, _but he's trusting me with the judgement of his soul_. If John decided to turn him in, Oliver would accept it as his just due, and take his punishment without complaint. 

_All right. I can work with that._ John softened his tone. "No, man. I gotta stop an arms deal."


	32. Operation Misdirect

"Gas-powered; air cooled. Fires up to 800 rounds per minute."

Now John's heart rate had little to do with anger. He'd reached a level of adrenaline so high that he'd passed through energized and emerged into some sort of hyper-alert calm. Pre-battle nerves, for him, manifested as perfect stillness.

Mueller had two bodyguards. _Assume another in the car._ The gang had 3 spokesmen, and three watching the perimeter. _Assume one more._ 11-on-1 odds. _Stupid to go in without backup._

But that was military training talking, not necessarily reality. Yes, SOP said to have at least two people on every op, but in fact, John knew, there was little risk. Neither Mueller nor his driver were likely to actually engage. Both sides valued their lives over this arms deal, and would run rather than fight given the option. All he had to do was making running seem more appealing. 

Mueller's guards would be wary of the buyers trying to kill them and steal the guns; therefore they would be more paranoid. Mueller had nothing to gain by killing his buyers, so the gang wouldn't be so much on edge. 

So. Throw the breakers to create a distraction. He could take one, maybe two gangbangers in the first surprise attack. Mueller's guards would focus on getting him into the car and away; the gang would run off as soon as it was clear that the deal wasn't happening. He didn't have to take out 11 guys by himself, he just had to use his knowledge of security procedures to disrupt the meeting. 

It was as good a plan as he was going to get. John flipped the switch and swung into motion. 

-

"Hello?"

There was no way to be sure what Oliver's situation was; assume insecure communication. "Man in the hood: 1. Gangbangers: 0."

Oliver started to say something as John heard four quick knocks in the background. "Hang on." Oliver covered the mouthpiece and spoke to whoever was with him. "Yeah?"

John couldn't make out the words, but he could hear Oliver's response. "No, it's just me up here and I'm on my way back down." Into the phone Oliver said, "Good job. Now get back here." John heard a door open, and then the clatter of a phone being dropped. 

"Oliver?"

There was nothing he could hear clearly, but John knew hand-to-hand combat well enough to identify by sound over a tinny smartphone earpiece. "Oliver!" His heart rate jacked up again as he rushed for the car. 

He'd driven his own car, since the Queens had nothing sufficiently nondescript, and he didn't trust that he could evade police on foot. But he'd driven straight from the lair, after changing into the costume. _Note to self: always bring both suits with you._

He didn't realize his phone was still on until he heard the gunshot, loud enough to be heard even with the phone on the seat next to him. John grit his teeth and drove as fast as he dared. 


	33. Training

John sat in the dark in Oliver's suite, and waited for Oliver to get tired of Moira's fussing. Mostly he contemplated how strange his life had become.

On the drive back to the mansion he'd sorted through his options. Fact 1: There was nothing he could do to change the outcome; either Oliver had been killed by that gunshot or he hadn't. Fact 2: If he'd been killed, no plan would help anything. Conclusion 1: for planning purposes, assume Oliver is OK. Then what was John's responsibility? 

To keep this mission live, _John couldn't be seen._ No one had paid any attention to him at the party; if he didn't show up after Oliver's attack, everyone would assume that it was because he wasn't there. But in that case, he had no reason to show up now; he'd have to explain his presence. If he tried to claim he _had_ been working security for the party, he'd have to answer questions about why he hadn't been there to protect Oliver, and that would lead nowhere good. So: as long as John wasn't at the Queen mansion that evening, there was no contradiction, nothing to explain. 

He sure as hell was not going to go home without knowing that Oliver was alright. But he had to do so without letting anyone know he was there. So he'd snuck in the front door, and breathed a quick sigh of relief as he heard Oliver's voice in the parlor. While the family was gathered downstairs, John had climbed the stairs as quietly as he could, and made his way to Oliver's suite, to wait in the darkness until Oliver joined him. 

He hid himself behind a couch, cross-legged on the floor, just in case someone other than Oliver came in. _Weirdest mission ever_. But he liked it. He felt good. For the first time in years, he felt good. He'd seen action again, gotten to do something other than watch carefully and tag along to nightclubs. And that action had made a difference -- the Glades had fewer machine guns, fewer ways to kill people -- because of him. John leaned back against the side of the couch and smiled.

So, OK, he'd made the right decision. That was good to know. But what the hell was he going to do with Oliver?

This was the first time, John realized, that he'd had a chance to sit and think about his charge now that he knew the full picture. Well, the first chance he'd had without churning turmoil in his gut, anyway.

_What the hell happened to him on that island?_

By the time he'd left the army, John had held the highest possible non-commissioned rank, which meant he'd been semi-officially in charge of training new officers. The army would send him youngsters, kids who officially outranked him but had never held a command in their lives, and it was Sergeant Diggle's job to give them the right nudges in the right directions, to help them translate their officer's training into real-world application. It had left him with a pretty good ability to judge what training soldiers had received. 

And Oliver... Oliver had -- somehow, somewhere along the line -- had combat training. The speed, the constant on-guard tension, those could be from any kind of dangerous situation. Archery could be useful if you needed to fend for yourself, although making an effective bow and arrows was harder than most people imagined. But Oliver was also skilled in hand-to-hand combat, and that was the kind of thing you learned only from fighting with people. Other humans. 

Whatever the hell had happened during his 5 years, Oliver had definitely been in contact with other people. And he'd come back from those people with a bow and arrow, combat skills, and an alert wariness that made no attempt to judge people as friend or foe, but assumed that everyone was his enemy. 

The implication was chilling. 

Before he had enough time to follow up on that line of thought, John heard footsteps in the hall. He froze, and listened carefully. One set of footsteps. John wasn't 100% sure he could identify Oliver's gait, but he was confident enough to risk a peek above the arm of the couch. To his relief, it _was_ Oliver outlined in the doorway. 

"I'm in here. Don't panic." John spoke as soon as Oliver had closed the door to his suite. It wasn't good to surprise a vet in the darkness, but John hadn't dared turn on a light as long as he was in a room that was supposed to be empty.

Oliver whirled, his hands moving to defensive positions, before his conscious mind recognized John's voice and he relaxed. He took a deep breath and forced his hands down, then took another breath before he was able to speak. "Hey." He gave John a nod.

"Just had to make sure you were OK."

Oliver looked startled, then nodded. "Yeah, yeah. I'm fine." He sank down onto the arm of a chair and ran his hands over his hair.

John waited a few moments, but more information did not appear to be forthcoming. _Worst AAR ever._

Actually not the _worst_. The worst had been that kid in Puli Khumri, that... _Shit. I've gone and gotten myself another one._

It was another conclusion that was obvious in retrospect: Oliver had the combat training, and a good eye for tactical analysis; what he lacked was the experience working as part of a unit, the ability to lead and encourage others as part of his mission. John Diggle was once again in charge of training a young officer, who technically outranked him but was vastly under-equipped with leadership experience. _Oh goody._

 _Well, might as well start now, I guess._ John dug inside himself and found the Sergeant Major tone, the one that combined reprimand and exasperation, but stopped just short of insubordination. "Brief me properly, dammit," he bit out, quietly but forcefully.

Oliver looked up, his eyes wide, and blinked. John let him hang for just a heartbeat, and then grinned. After a moment, Oliver laughed. "Sorry. I guess I'm not used to working on a team."

"Fair enough. We'll just have to get you some practice. You can start," John leaned against the desk "by telling me what happened tonight."


	34. Secrets and Lies

"What did you tell Thea?"

John looked up from the gun he was cleaning. He and Oliver had spent most of the day at the lair. There was no reason to be there, but there was no reason to leave, either, and it was a place where they could speak freely, be themselves. So while Oliver manufactured arrowheads, John did some routine maintenance on his handgun. "Hm?"

"About why you were at the house, after you quit."

"Oh. I told her you'd pissed me off, and I'd said some stuff I shouldn't, but since you'd accepted my apology, I was back on the job."

After a few more minutes of silence, Oliver said, "How do you come up with plausible lies like that?"

John set his gun down. "It wasn't a lie, Oliver. You did piss me off."

Oliver turned to face John, and John could see his eyes roll in agreement. "Yeah, but..."

"And I said some things I shouldn't have. But when I came to the house and agreed to sign on to ..." John's wave took in the lair around them "..this, you understood it as an apology, yes?"

"I guess so. But Diggle, you didn't need to apologize for anything."

"Yeah I did. But that's not what's on your mind right now."

John waited as the silence stretched, betting that he could outlast Oliver. 

"Laurel stopped by this morning. Before I called you. She brought my polygraph results."

"Polygraph?"

"Yeah. I agreed to take a polygraph for Detective Lance. To prove my innocence."

 _And I thought this plan was bad before..._ "And if it had proven the opposite?" John demanded. "What makes you think you can beat a lie detector test?" John's heart was racing in belated panic; he told himself to calm down. Obviously it was going to turn out OK, because it already had.

Oliver just gave a short, bitter laugh. "Digg, my vitals are so elevated, you couldn't use a polygraph to tell if someone was actively torturing me."

It didn't sound like an example chosen at random. Torture? _**... assumes everyone is his enemy...**_ John dragged his attention back to the lair, to Oliver. "So... Laurel?"

Oliver looked down at the arrow in his hand. "I lied on one of the questions that Laurel knew the answer to. I forgot that we went to Iron Heights on a school field trip. Laurel wanted to know why the polygraph didn't blip."

"Why didn't you tell her that you'd forgotten?"

Oliver froze. John wasn't sure what tipped him off, but something about Oliver's tension -- maybe a change in breathing pattern, or something in his posture -- told him that the question was a much bigger deal than John had intended it to be.

Oliver's breath was ragged, although he tried to control it. His eyes were wide, and unfocused, and his muscles clenched. _What the hell?_

Not that he didn't recognize the symptoms, but ... _Why on earth is that a trigger?_ And more importantly, how do you calm someone down from that? Without knowing what had triggered Oliver, John scarcely dared say anything.

Oliver squeezed his eyes shut, took another deep breath. "I..." He breathed out forcefully. "...can't."

"OK." John spoke softly and calmly. "That's all right."

Oliver took another ragged breath, and finally opened his eyes. His eyes were haunted and terrified. John held up his hands, palms up, but kept his distance until Oliver nodded. Then John moved in, grasped Oliver's forearms. "It's alright. You're OK."

"I screwed up." Oliver's voice was small, and had a slight hiccup in it.

"Not a big deal." John hesitated, wanting to be reassuring but unwilling to lie. "What did you tell her?"

"Told her I was ... damaged. That I couldn't hold a pen, much less aim a bow and arrow."

"And she believed it?" No reason she shouldn't -- Oliver _was_ damaged. He looked damaged; he acted damaged. Oliver nodded.

"Then we're fine. That's all that matters. You did just fine."

Oliver stood up abruptly and strode over to the exercise area. John returned to his gun maintenance with the 'clang!' of the salmon ladder in the background -- like John, Oliver exercised in order to clear his thoughts.

John had no intention of interfering: it was a good coping mechanism. It kept Oliver in shape for the work he was doing, made use of the fight-or-flight reactions that PTSD triggers caused, and helped him work of the adrenaline in a harmless way. So when he finished reassembling his handgun, John occupied himself on the lair computer system.

The clanging was replaced by the thud of gloves hitting a punching bag. Then the shuffling and whooshing of martial arts katas. Finally Oliver came over and stood behind John's chair. "Taking up hacking?"

John turned around. "Figured I should familiarize myself with the system. Don't know what might come up." It was another common sergeant speech, and John slipped easily into lecture mode. "On any team, there will always be differing strengths and weaknesses, and as much as possible, you want to assign people so they're using their strengths. You want to have the best person for the job assigned to any given job." John paused, and Oliver nodded.

"That said, you don't always have that luxury. Shit happens, and people end up doing jobs they never planned on doing." Oliver gave a small snort, the corners of his mouth turned up, and nodded agreement. "So," John continued, "It's best to make you have everyone on the team as fully cross-trained as possible. The better everyone is at doing all the jobs, the better chance you have of winning even after it hits the fan." Oliver nodded again.

John swung back to the keyboard. "So I decided to see what you had, here. You're tapping into police scanners?"

"Trying to," Oliver said, pulling up a stool. "But I can't seem to get the tech quite right..."

\----

John had Oliver walk him through everything he'd done with the lair's computer system, playing dumb and asking questions when necessary to get Oliver to explain more fully. All part of the job. _Training officers how to train their subordinates. A sergeant's work is never done._ Then John ran out to Big Belly to get them some dinner.

When he returned, Oliver was seated on a workbench, with his knees curled up to his chest. John handed him a sack. "What's up, man?"

Oliver took the food, but set it on the bench as he slid to the floor. "I just.... I'm thinking about Laurel. How I lied to her."

It was the dishonesty that was the sticking point, John suspected. Oliver was, by nature, an honest man, and the deceptions necessary for this crusade made him uncomfortable.

Hell, it made John uncomfortable. But he had experience to draw on: it wasn't much different from withholding classified information from your family. You told the truth where you could, and spoke vaguely where you had to. It might help Oliver to think of it that way.

"So you lied to her. Or maybe you just.... gave her a version of the truth."

"I told her what she needed to hear, Diggle. She was too close."

John shook his head. "Sad thing is, I think you actually believe that. I think things didn't go down exactly as you planned." Oliver turned to look at him, but said nothing. "You didn't count on so many people having questions. Doubting you. You didn't think about what happens when you lie. Especially when you lie to the ones you love the most. When you were stuck on that island, plotting your grand plan to save the city, I don't think you stopped to consider the effect it would have on the people in your life. Or how it might hurt them."

Oliver was silent a long time. "You're wrong." He looked up and met John's eyes squarely, defiantly. "I think about it all the time. And just to be clear, not being able to tell my family the truth -- it doesn't hurt anyone worse than it hurts me." 

Abruptly Oliver turned away and picked up his hood. 

"Where you going?" John demanded.

"Mueller still has to sell those guns and I have to stop him."

John moved to follow, alarmed. From the look on his face, Oliver was triggered again, and in a killing mood. "Oliver!"

"He had his chance." Oliver stalked away, leaving John alone in the lair. 


	35. Damaged

John seethed and paced the lair.

He hadn't bothered chasing after Oliver. In his current state, all he'd accomplish would be to piss off both himself and Oliver, and possibly start a fist fight. 

_And I'm not sure who would win, either._ John was not accustomed to that kind of doubt -- he could win most any physical confrontation. With Oliver, he was genuinely uncertain, but it didn't stop a part of him from wanting to try beating sense into the boy. 

_Oliver Queen is an injured, hurting child, and beating the shit out of him will not help him feel safer._ John growled and beat the shit out of a heavy punching bag, instead. 

\------------

Oliver paused on the next-to-last stair, when he spotted John sitting in the desk chair. The hood was pushed back, but the greasepaint was still on. 

"Leave anyone alive?" John's voice was hard and cold. 

Oliver took the last step down and walked over to hang up his bow. "No." He stepped to a sink and began washing his face, as if John hadn't spoken, and wasn't there. 

John could wait. He'd waited all night. He could wait another five minutes. He waited until Oliver had finished washing and had dried himself off. 

"I went to all that work to minimize casualties, risked my own life for it, and you just go and kill them all?" 

Oliver's tone was indifferent, his face expressionless. "No one asked you to do that."

"Goddammit, Oliver! This isn't Afghanistan! You can't make the world a better place by killing..."

Oliver interrupted. "No, Diggle, it's not Afghanistan. You know what else wasn't? Lian Yu! In Afghanistan you have troops and backup and equipment. So I'm _sorry_ that you had the luxury of being able to decide who was a threat worth killing. I didn't have court martials and a legal system and the weight of the world's most powerful military to back me up. I didn't have IR goggles and sniper rifles and drones to do my killing for me. So if you can't handle a real war, maybe you should leave now."

Almost, John yelled back. _Coward, you call me? You think we didn't have to scramble for our lives every single day?_

Almost, John walked out. _Fuck this shit. I don't need to be abused by a pinprick officer doesn't know what war is._

But he saw Oliver's shoulders twitch. And then he saw other things: tears, not quite enough to spill out onto Oliver's cheeks. The clenched jaw, the tight swallow. 

He remembered those times that he'd yelled at Andy, or at his father. He remembered how it felt to be so out of control that he couldn't stop himself from ruining his life, his family, his only source of stability. It was never anger, no matter how angry he'd seemed. It had always -- always -- been fear. Fear that he couldn't adapt, that he was irretrievably broken. 

The triggers were bad -- the sudden noises, or the bags by the side of the road -- but they weren't the worst part by far. The terror came from the fact that he had no choice but to react to them. Fear because he couldn't stop himself. Fear that he would forever be slave to his fucked-up brain chemistry that forced his behavior, forced him to drive away everyone close to him and fuck up his own life. 

Oliver wasn't angry, or even defensive. Oliver was terrified.

_Shit. Now I gotta be all sympathetic._ A part of John was frustrated and wanted to stay angry -- it was so much easier than facing the complex reality of the situation. 

But a bigger part of him had already made the switch. He couldn't see Oliver as a threat any more. Like on the night Oliver had showed him the notebook, John had involuntarily become a friend and supporter. He took a deep breath. 

"I'm sorry."

Oliver had opened his mouth to shout back, and now stood staring at John. After a few moments, he shook himself slightly. "What?" 

"I'm sorry," John repeated. "I know you did what you felt you had to do. Next time we should try to plan things out better."

Oliver flinched, and then stood frozen. After a while he shook his head. "I ... don't..."

_Understand,_ John finished for him. _I know, kid. We'll work on it._ John put his hand on Oliver's shoulder, and waited until Oliver had himself back under control. Then he grasped Oliver's forearm, and gave him a nod. "Let's go get something to eat."


	36. Sparring

It started out as simple curiosity. John hoped never to have to actually fight Oliver Queen, but he still couldn't help wondering what would happen if he did. And sparring had other advantages: hand-to-hand combat was the kind of thing that required constant practice, and it would be helpful for both him and Oliver to learn tricks from each other.

So he proposed it, and he and Oliver spent a morning expanding the exercise area to include a sparring ring. Then John got his question answered, quickly.

If he ever had to fight Oliver Queen, he should make sure to bring a gun. He sure as hell wasn't going to win a fist fight. _Or a sword fight. Or..._

But he proposed more sparring the next day, and again the day after that, because he'd also learned something else: he'd learned how to get Oliver to talk.

 _The trick is to let him beat up on you while he's doing it._ John parried a rapid series of strikes, then made a swing of his own, which Oliver easily dodged. Oliver circled to his left, not even breathing hard. "Anchor the rear hand, Diggle! Come on!"

John shook off his irritation. "OK." He hefted his iron bar and launched another series of attacks. These Oliver easily parried, then almost casually smacked John across the cheek.

"Aagh!" John turned away and probed to make sure his teeth were still securely in place, checked for blood. Oliver continued his lecture.

"Variable acceleration. Fighters work at the same pace. Switch it up; throw your opponent off his game."

Finding himself more or less intact, John gave wordless vent to his frustration before he re-focused on the combat. "That was nice. Where'd you learn that?"

Oliver's eyes never stopped scanning the basement. "His name was Yao Fei."

John gestured to Oliver's torso. "He give you those scars?"

"One of them." Oliver's tone was mocking.

"And the others?" Oliver said nothing, just continued to circle John, his eyes taking in every movement. John shook his head. "You know one of these days you're gonna be straight with me about what really happened on that island"

"Absolutely." A corner of Oliver's mouth turned up as he launched another series of attacks that ended with a sweep at knee-level, knocking John down. "But not today." Oliver walked away without looking back, a sign that the talking-about-trauma portion of the conversation was over.

John pushed himself upright. "Still, some pretty sweet moves."

"Yep." Oliver tapped the keyboard, brought up a window. "Tonight I'm gonna use some on him. Scott Morgan runs water and power in the Glades. Jacks up the prices when people can't pay," Oliver put on a hoodie, "shuts them down even in the dead of winter."

"Which is at least a month away." John walked over to the computer and brought up a window of his own. "Look at this. These guys started in Keystone 3 years ago, then began moving west hitting banks along the way. This morning they hit Starling City Trust." John glanced up to Oliver, waiting for a reaction.

He got nothing. "Shot an off-duty cop. He's in a coma, doctors are saying it's a coin toss whether he'll make it."

Oliver's face was impassive. "If he's a cop SCPD will be all over it."

John shook his head. "Overwhelmed, under-funded." _What gives?_ Listen, these guys don't hit one time, they hit two or three banks per city, which means right now they're planning their next job."

Oliver finally made eye contact. "I think you have the wrong impression about what it is that I do."

"You take out bad guys with a bow and arrow."

John could tell he'd hit home when Oliver walked away. "I don't fight street crime. That's a symptom of what's wrong with this city; I'm trying to cure the disease"

 _Sure, but there's more to it than that._ "CEOs  & crooked entrepreneurs, I get it. Listen, Oliver I'm just saying," _What am I saying?_ "maybe you can make a difference if you think beyond the scope of those pages. I'm sure your father wouldn't mind."

"No you don't get it." Oliver turned around. "My father died so that I could live. Live and make a difference by fixing the city that he and the people in this book ruined. Every name that I cross of that list honors that sacrifice."

 _Melodramatic much?_ "Oliver there's more than one way to save this city."

"Not for me." John stared. "Crime happens in this city every day. What do you want me to do? Stop all of it?"

 _Corruption happens in this city every day, too. Does that make it OK?_ John was in Oliver's face now. "Sounds like you have a narrow definition of being a hero." John threw down his towel and walked out before he said anything more that he'd regret.

Oliver could have spoken quietly. But instead he raised his voice enough that Digg could hear him across the basement. "I'm not a hero."


	37. Off-list

The first time John Diggle was arrested for brawling, it was because someone had bumped his bar stool from behind. John was out of his chair and pummeling the guy before anyone else could react.

The second time, it was because a creep was waiting outside the women's restroom, his posture reminiscent of a "freedom fighter" laying an ambush.

The third time, the bar asked him not to come back.

The fourth time John Diggle was arrested for brawling, it was after he'd prevented a street crime. Police pulled him off the would-be mugger after the intended victim called 911. Diggle was taken to jail while the mugger was taken to the ER.

The fifth time, it was assault while breaking up a drug deal. 

The sixth time, after stopping a bank robbery, John got a personal visit from the police captain. 

John looked up as his cell door slid open. By now he'd gotten to know police ranks nearly as well as military ones: this was a captain, head of the SCPD station in the glades. There was no one around to shout "Officer on deck!" but habit took John to his feet anyway. 

"At-ease." The captain nodded as John shifted his feet apart and clasped his hands behind him. "Military were you?"

John kept his eyes front and spoke crisply. "105th airborne out of Kandahar, sir."

"Son..." the captain sighed. "I won't say you don't have the right idea. I understand what you want to do. And you saved the life of one of my officers, and I'm grateful for that. But we can't keep doing this." The man clasped his hands. "Assault on a criminal is still a crime. You understand that, right?"

John had said nothing, but had nodded once, slowly. 

"Now if you want to have a hand in keeping this city under control, I'd be glad to welcome you onto the force. If you want to step away, just quit with the fighting and we'll call it good. But I'd take it as a personal favor if you could figure out how to not come back here any more." 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

So John knew he couldn't trust himself when it came to crime-fighting. He'd signed on knowing it would be a constant struggle, weighing what his temper wanted against what would actually be best for the city.

So when Oliver refused to go after Royal Flush Gang, John hadn't pushed. At least not too much. Maybe he was wrong. _Am I wrong?_

Certainly John couldn't disagree with Oliver's priorities. The root of the problem lay in the onepercenter scumbags treating Starling City as a resource to be strip-mined. If the problems plaguing their home were to be stopped, that would have to be dealt with. 

_But..._

But what? John didn't know. And still something in his gut said to keep pushing.


End file.
